Gale at my Side
by Pynnelopi
Summary: The Games, as they should've happened. Enter Gale, and may the odds be ever in your favor.    Gale and Katniss, HG 74
1. Chapter 1

**PART ONE **

GALE AND KATNISS

WELCOME TO THE 74TH ANNUAL HUNGER GAMES,

MAY THE ODDS BE EVER IN YOUR FAVOR.

**A/N: **

**Disclaimer: If I were Susanne Collins, I would own the Hunger Games, but I'm not, so I don't. **

**Enjoy fanfiction #1, there will be more to come...=) **

**And I'm open to plenty of constructive criticism, god knows I need it.  
**

It's the morning of the Reaping, and I can hear the autumn leaves crunching under my hunting boots as I head toward the woods. I contemplate the consequences this afternoon will have on the rest of my life: I consider how two children from District 12 will leave forever, never to see the dried leaves gracing the worn cobbled, ash covered streets of their home ever again.

Disturbed, I banish these thoughts from my mind.

I listen, purely out of habit, to ensure that the electric fence bordering the district is turned off. As usual, it is. I swiftly dive beneath the menacing wires, as I have done so many times before, quickly entering the cover of the thick trees. These trees are my salvation, but also forbidden. To hunt in the way we do is illegal – technically, we could be whipped to a bloody pulp twice a day. However, there are some advantages to living in the poorest, most malnourished district: even the peacekeepers are starved for fresh meat.

I approach the ledge near the blackberry bush where I know Gale, my best friend waits for me. I see him first, he seems tense today. With good reason, though, as the reaping creates tension even for those who've never had to sign up for tesserae, and whose names are only entered once in those formidable glass balls. His long, black hair falls over his pale grey eyes, and his brow is furrowed in a way that tells me one thing: he's as nervous for this afternoon as I am. Both of our siblings, Prim and Rory, will be entered in the Reaping for the first time. I agilely climb up to his perch, ready to provide what comfort to him I can manage.

"The baker was feeling generous today," he says, brandishing a fresh loaf of bread, with one of his arrows protruding from the crust. Having both grown up in the Seam, we are both painfully aware what a precious commodity this simple loaf of bakery bread is. "He only charged me a squirrel."

"I guess we're all feeling more sympathetic today," I say carefully, not wanting to send Gale into one of his raging anti-capital tangents, as I lean in to help his strong hands with slicing the bread.

These efforts for peace were wasted. His scowl deepens, and I can see his muscles tense. "Your name is entered in that drawing twenty times, Catnip."

I sigh, well aware how many times both of our names have been submitted to the reaping. We've both made risks to keep our families fed: sneaking into the woods to hunt illegally, risking our status as tributes in exchange for a measly amount of grain and oil. As children who've grown up without fathers, we've had to learn to care for our families.

We treat ourselves to a breakfast of bread and cheese, then proceed to hunt as we normally would. Gale and I both function better as a team, and we've developed a deep bond through our hunting. We can communicate without speaking, easily watching each other's backs, and moving as though we're parts of a whole, rather than two different people. I know that Gale knows me better than anyone else – and I him.

We've gathered a fair amount of bounty, filling Gale's game bag and half of mine. As we venture back into the town to sell the game, we notice the preparations that have been made in the village square for the upcoming ceremony, transforming the one stylish part of the town into the proverbial plank for a boy and a girl tribute….perhaps it will even be someone we know this year. Gale grabs my hand, and squeezes it once, conveying the apprehensive feelings we both have about this afternoon.

We approach one of the finer buildings in the district, aside from the justice building. The mayor, as my father taught me, has an affinity to fresh strawberries, and will pay a fair price for them. However, it's his daughter, Madge, who answers the door this time. She's wearing an expensive dress – one that's worth enough to feed both of our families. I can see it in his shrewd, grey eyes that Gale has already made these calculations.

"I can see you want to look your best for the Reaping," he says acidly. "Not likely that you, of all people, would be chosen." He scoffs, laughing sarcastically.

I cringe as I see tears beginning to form in kind, sensitive Madge's eyes. She quietly leaves us to find her father, who pays for generously for the berries.

After we've left, I grab Gale by the wrist. "That was sympathetic," I scold him sarcastically.

"She's never going to become a tribute. Whereas you…" he trails off, sweeping my bangs back from my face. "Sorry." He says gruffly. "Wear something pretty to the Reaping, Catnip."

Later, after I've been groomed and dressed by my mother and sister Prim, I go to my designated place with the other fifteen year olds to watch the reaping. I observe my surroundings, seeing Prim ahead of me, her shirt sticking out in the back like a duck's tail. Then I see Gale, standing with the other eighteen year old boys. His name is entered forty seven times, an awfully large amount. Catching his eye, I see a look of worry on his face, and I know that he's thinking the same thing about me. Will we ever have the opportunity to just enjoy a peaceful, happy moment, without some sort of evil, stressing thought lurking over us?

Over the years, Gale and I have become undeniably close, and we care about each other as though we're family. Lately, though, things have changed. At school, Gale has the choice of any of the girls – they're impressed by his roughly hewn good looks and foreboding stature, and lately I've noticed that I mind, although I'm not sure what it is that I'm jealous of, the thought of losing an excellent hunting partner, or something else.

The sound of Effie Trinket's capitol accent draws me back to the present issue. I take in her brightly colored hair and exuberant expression as she shouts out the widely known catchphrase. "Have a happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be EVER in your favor!" I groan, trying to remember the mirthful way Gale had imitated her this morning. With her long, gruesomely pink nails, she reaches into the glass ball containing the girls' names first, as is tradition. With theatrical suspense, she slowly unfolds the piece of paper, and reads the name.

"Primrose Everdeen."

Dear god, not Prim. Not my little sister. This moment is surreal. As a twelve year old, her name had only been entered once. As Effie would say, "The odds were NOT in her favor."

Light, sweet Prim, whom everyone loves, attempts to put on a brave face as she slowly ascends the stairs to centerstage. But then, when I see the duck tail formed by her shirttail, I am snapped harshly back into reality.

"No. Wait. I volunteer. Wait!" I scream, my voice breaking, as I rush forward to take her place.

"Katniss, no!" Prim yells, trying to cling to the fabric of my dress. Then Gale is there, at my side, as he always is. He disentangles her small fingers from me, pulling her back into safety.

In that short moment we have, when the crowd is to shocked to respond to the actions, Gale's lips lightly brush my cheek. "Up you go, Katniss," he whispers to me. I realize that he has abandoned his common term of endearment he calls me by, in this stressful moment. I wonder if he's ever said my real name aloud before now.

Effie Trinket looks slightly surprised herself. It's not often that there's a volunteer in a run-down district such as ours. "Well, moving on then," she says briskly, " we'll now draw the name of the lucky male tribute!"

Once again, her claw-like fingers enter the glass ball, and pull out a slip of paper. She reads the name. "Peeta Mellark."

I see him in the crowd, and instantly recognize him – he stands out among the skinny District 12 population, it's obvious that he's been well fed his entire life. The memory associated with this boy is humiliating – he had seen me at my worst point, after my father had died, when I had been scrounging in the garbage behind his house for any scraps of food. Before I had found Gale in the woods. His charity – the gift of a loaf of bread – was one that I had never understood. It was as though later, he had demanded a return of payment for his act of kindness – always watching me, staring, waiting for me to run to him and thank him. He was the kind of person who always needed something in return, who didn't like to watch debts go unpaid. He made me feel embarrassed, shameful.

"Oh, please, no," I think to myself, knowing I would never be able to face him as an adversary with the weight of the guilt he has bestowed upon me.

As he walks up to the stage, I see something phenomenal happen. A strong hand shoves Peeta aside as he walks forward. The hand belongs to Gale Hawthorne.

"I volunteer," he says, his voice ringing loud and clear in the silent square. Now I am in complete disbelief, as the irrational part of my mind jumps for joy at the fact he'll be coming with, but the rational part considers how much more difficult this whole scenario has become. Now my fearful emotions have been mixed with fury and confusion. Dread. If there was any sliver of anything that could possibly have been mistaken for hope, it's gone now. How can I ever succeed now? Even if one of us does manage to win, we'll still lose the other. And, as is very well likely, if neither of us wins, there will be no one left at home to care for either of our families. That's another five people dead who didn't have to die.

But, argues the small part of me that's managed to retain its sense of optimism, there's nothing that can be done now. All I can do is accept and appreciate my best friend's presence. How could I ever regret having Gale by my side, regardless of the situation?

He reaches the stage, and grabs my hand, strongly, firmly, holding me steady as we acknowledge the crowd. His arms hold me steady, and I lean against his well-built body.

"I'm going with you," he says. "And I'll do all I can to make sure you make it home." I rest my head against his chest, allowing myself to take comfort from him, even though his words frighten me.

Haymitch Abernathy, known both as the town drunk and our only mentor/victor, stumbles toward us, sloshing a disgusting white liquid all over himself. He reeks. He stumbles toward us, and attempts to put his arms around our shoulders, but Gale shoves him away, sending him toppling over the stage and into the humiliated crowd, much to the amusement of the people from the capitol.

Gale and I release each other, but for our hands, and turn our faces toward the cameras. In that moment, we have acknowledged the odds, accepted them for what they are, and promised to rise above them.

Then, something extraordinary happens. When Effie calls for applause, the crowd is silent. Then, they press the three fingers of their right hands against their lips, bidding us farewell. The message is clear: they do not approve, they do not condone. Our loss will be regretted within the district.

We are herded by peacekeepers into the luxurious justice building where we will say our final goodbyes to the people close to us.

I see my mother, Prim. They're tearful, but I make them promise to be strong and wise in my absence. I advise them that if they make the right choices, they can keep from starving. I command them to sell the resources from Prim's goat wisely, and tell my mother to reopen her apothecary business. I must do all that I can to secure their safety in my absence.

As they leave my room, little Prim turns back and says one more thing to me. "Katniss, promise me you'll win." And I nod, promising her just that.

Next, Madge arrives, handing me a golden pin with a mockingjay engraved onto the surface. I appreciate the sense of rebelliousness, as the mockingjay was one of the Capitol's most infamous failures during the dark days of rebellion. While I know that it's the perfect token, I wonder at exactly why Madge has presented me with this gift. I contemplate whether there may be a deeper, hidden meaning behind the kind but simple gesture.

Next, I see the bakers, including Peeta. This comes as a bit of a surprise to me as well. They give me a box of cookies, and wish me well. They promise to look after Prim, and see to it that she remains in good health. I am reminded that everyone in the district loves Prim, and will take care of her. The boy, Peeta, looks shaky. I try to imagine him, his weak, emphatic eyes scanning the horizon for a danger, or better yet, a meal, and I can't place him. I know that he would never have stood a chance in the games.

I watch as they leave, carefully tucking the cookies underneath the couch where I sit. As delicious as I'm sure they'd be, they would taste like dirt in my mouth.

And I'm thinking of how I might lose Prim, my Mother, Gale, and everyone else I love in one stroke. Then, an epiphany comes to me. I consider the idea that if two minds and bodies were working toward the common goal of getting one of them home, they would have a chance of making it. Gale would care for my family if he were to come home – and let's face it: I could never stand for him to die. I decide, in that moment, that he will be the one coming home from the hunger games. Suddenly, I feel a rush of protectiveness about me. I must know where Gale is.

"Gale!" I cry. "Gale!"

I hear footsteps on the polished wood floor. And then there he is, sprinting toward me, grabbing me by the shoulders, looking desperate. "Are you alright?" He demands of me. His eyes are wild with fright. "Did they hurt you?"

"Yes. I…I just needed you. I needed to know you were safe."

A capitol attendant approaches us, asks us politely if we're done with our goodbyes. When Gale shoots him a menacing look, the man backs off quickly, leaving us be.

"I know what you mean. But don't worry. Even if I have to kill myself doing it, you'll get home safely. I'll protect you." He promises.

That was not what I meant at all.

Now we've boarded the train and are speeding through the various districts of Panem, all of which we've only heard about in school. Instinctively, my mind slips into survival mode. Gale and I gorge ourselves on the rich food, trying to gain as much weight as we can before the games. We work out constantly, hoping to build muscle and endurance that will provide us an edge over the careers in the arena. But we know that there's still one thing holding us back.

And that thing is our mentor, Haymitch, who has just walked in, in his typical hung over state.

The only way I know what Gale is about to do next is from the years of hunting together. An instant after his eyes flash with anger and his muscles tense, I prepare to defend him from any sort of counter attack Haymitch might provide.

Gale leaps up, knocking a bottle of expensive capitol wine out of Haymitch's fist. The disgusting alcohol spills on the lush carpet, leaving a dramatic red stain. With his other hand, Gale lands a punch squarely on Haymitch's nose. I hear a sickening, bone crunching snap.

In his drunken rage, I see our mentor begin to reach for his knife, but I'm ready. I grab a bread knife from the table, and stab it a good three inches into the table, a mere centimeter from our mentor's outstretched hands.

Unexpectedly, the man starts to laugh. "So, 12's actually produced a pair of fighters this year," he chortles. "Think ya can hit anything real with that knife, sweetheart?"

I try to ignore the irritating term of endearment as I throw the knife into the opposite wall. It's a good hit, and the knife fits well between two boards. I back into Gale, who defensively wraps his strong arms around me. His cold eyes challenge Haymitch to attempt attacking us.

Instead, he asks, "Can either of you do anything else impressive?"

After exchanging a quick glance with Gale, I decide that this is the best that we're likely to get from Haymitch. "We can both hunt. Gale's exceptional with snares. He can wrestle. He's strong."

In turn, Gale says, "Catnip can hit anything she wants to with a bow. She climbs trees like a squirrel. That is, if it means anything to an ugly drunk like you."

Our mentor agrees to stay sober enough to help us, if we swear to do as he says, and not interfere with his ludicrous drinking habits.

It's a decent offer.


	2. Chapter 2

GALE AT MY SIDE

PART TWO

GALE & KATNISS

ENTER SNOW, CAESAR, AND THE TRIBUTES

**A/N: Including all disclaimers stating sad but true facts about my ownership (or lack thereof) of the HUNGER GAMES, I'd like to wish you a happy reading =). Maybe it'll be good enough to warrant a few reviews?**

**Anyways. Enjoy Gale & Katniss & their perils upon entering the capitol. **

The next day, we're scheduled to arrive in the capitol. I am nervous to fully expose myself to these people who will be judging my every move: who will have the ability to give me a tremendous advantage in the arena, or leave me to die. The people in the capitol frighten me, to be honest. Scandals, lies, murder, it's what these people live for: and every action I make will be judged and categorized.

After eating, I seek Gale, hoping he will provide an oasis from the tension that the capitol citizens are putting us under. I finally find him at the back of the train, staring out at the distance. When I see him, he pulls me into his arms and rests his chin on the top of my head.

"You're not going to die," he says to me. "No matter how superhuman our adversaries are, I'll always protect you. Don't worry." He murmurs this into my hair, right near my ear.

However, I have to disagree. "No, Gale. It's you who'll be returning. We all know that, we've known that from the start."

He laughs. "In that case, Catnip, with each of us trying to keep the other alive, twelve will most definitely have a winner this year."

The train stops, me still in his arms, and we walk out the exit into the train station. He presses his forehead against my cheek. And we open the door, and see thousands of cameramen attacking us, pressing into us, trying to get as much of the 'intrigue' between these two tributes as possible.

While I'm terrified, Gale plays his part perfectly. He smiles, helps me out of the train, and releases me all but for my hand as forges ahead, paying the countless cameras no mind at all.

I, on the other hand, blush madly, trying to straighten my clothes, hide my face from the camera. Gale was born for the Games, there's no way he won't be a victor. I am just along for the ride.

We arrive at the training center, and ride the chrome elevator up to the twelfth level of the building.

We settle onto a plush couch, just in time to view the recap of the Reapings. I can tell by the hard expression in Gale's beautiful eyes that he's ready to size up the competition, and determine an offensive strategy. He should have been born in a district where the children are trained for the hunger games: he could have been legendary. In fact, I believe he still will be. It's about time District 12 has some honor.

Hailing from district one, there are the usual heavy, healthy tributes who look as though they've been trained to swing a sword around since they were eight, who'd slit my throat without a second glance. The boy is strong, looks as though he weighs 250 pounds of pure muscle, and is a volunteer. The girl is younger, with a lithe, athletic body and cascading blond hair. She twitches on screen as she attempts to present as impressive an image as possible, posing with her hip cocked and her ankle rolled out to the side.

Next, from district two, are two slightly younger, but just as menacing tributes. They look as though they could be related. And district three, the machinery district, produces two very young tributes, much to the dismay of the crowd. Even the capitol watchers don't like it when a twelve year old is elected to participate in the hunger games.

From district four, the third and final career district, is a light girl with dark hair and a muscular, imposing boy. Both have tanned, golden skin that's the result of sunny coastal living, and growing up on a fisherman's boat. I recall how district four tributes are typically the best swimmers, having grown up in a world of islands and boats somewhere off the coast. I remember Finnick Odair, the fourteen year old victor, from a few years ago, who proved to be an extraordinary talent with a trident, and able to weave a net out of anything. Mr. Odair still reigns supreme for his looks in the capitol.

In the latter districts, the tributes were less noteworthy. I remembered a red haired girl who looked as though she would never hesitate to sell someone out if it meant her safety, the type of person who would gut you in your sleep, and from district eleven, a young, dark skinned girl who reminded me eerily of Prim, the only difference being that no one stepped forward in her place. There was no one who cared enough to want to protect her.

And finally, it was our turn. Our Reapings ceremony was eclectic, as is typical of district twelve, but it stood out in an impressionable way this year. We looked strong, and independent. Gale and I had obviously left an impression on the viewers, being District 12's first volunteers since the games were created. The way which we presented ourselves together onstage, as a team. Unified. We compare well even with the career tributes, who normally completely outshine the rest of the Districts.

After the wrap up of the Reapings, we viewed a montage of all of the tributes' entrances into the capitol. Many seemed to have aimed high, with extravagant entrances and outfits for the occasion. Gale and I, however, were once again different. We looked strong, and confident. And we had presented ourselves together, once again, unlike any of the other districts. It was uncommon for contestants, competing for their lives, to be portrayed as…friends.

Unbeknownst to me, Haymitch had silently been watching over our shoulders.

"You do realize, don't you, that you will have to keep up with the alias you two have built yourselves," he said, surprisingly sober, his voice relatively free from the drunken slurs that I'm used to.

"Meaning?" Gale asked, his dark eyebrows folding up under his black hair.

"Meaning," began Haymitch, "That you two will have to continue to look like lovebirds, or give up any hope you had of gaining sponsors. The capitol will love watching a sweet little couple run around and get killed. It's perfect." His face, to my disgust, was quite amused.

At my expression of dismay, he adds, "Never dreamed you'd be one of those famous star-crossed lovers you always see on TV, did ya sweetheart?"

Gale ducks his face behind his hair, refusing to meet my eyes. "I guess we're going to die soon, anyways," he says gruffly. "Might as well go for it."

Haymitch, ever the sensitive type, chuckles at us. I imagine he would get along well with Gale if he weren't the town drunk. They share an excellent sense of ironic humor.

However, I haven't completely developed my opinion on our latest strategy…

It's the idea of falseness that bothers me, for so many years now Gale has been the only thing in my life that I can absolutely trust. And now I will have no way of understanding what the true extent of our friendship is…

I look to my side, and see Gale frowning, deep in thought. His hands are knotting the fringe on a throw pillow into intricate, carefully tied patterns. He looks up, sensing my eyes on him.

"I just don't know anymore," he says carefully. "I…it's like I can't get my mind off of what could have been, and it's messing with what is now."

I pause for a moment, interpreting his convoluted words, while his hands go back to tying little knots in the fringe. Tentatively, I place my hand on his, calming his frantic fingers.

"Yeah," I agree. "But it's the Hunger Games now…what's important is just to survive."

Abruptly, he turns, catching my face in his hands. His silvery grey eyes search mine, looking for some sort of hidden message in my face, his thumbs tracing the lines of my jaw. My heart hammers in my chest, and I'm regretful as I pull away from him.

Next, we're scheduled to meet our stylists, who will prepare us for the opening ceremony. We've been told to acquiesce to their every request, as the stylists will be responsible for our first impression on the people of Panem. If we fail to impress the wealthy people of the Capitol, they're not likely to sponsor us. And the victors are always the ones with the most sponsors.

Apparently, however, my stylist wants nothing to do with me until I've been subjected to the terrors wreaked by his prep team. They're a colorful arrangement of people, who have the interesting combination of both being entirely oblivious and weak, but who I'm also absolutely dependent on. Not exactly a recipe for success, in my opinion.

Finally, when I've been plucked and pruned within an inch of my life, I get to meet Cinna. He hasn't entirely altered himself to an unrecognizable state, as is the tradition for hunger games stylists, and so I begin to form the misconception that he may, after all, be somewhat sane.

Sadly, these hopes are dashed the moment informs me of the costume I'll be wearing tonight.

"I hope you're not afraid of fire," he says, with a mischievous twinkle in his eye that, to be quite honest, terrifies me.

I'm dressed in a black unitard with tall boots, which isn't completely awful, at least compared to our district's typical coal miner outfits and coal-dust covered nudity. Or so I thought.

"Welcome to the hunger games, Girl on Fire," Cinna says to me, brandishing what I can only describe as a seriously wicked looking blow torch.

I thought I would at least survive long enough to enter the arena.

Apparently, Gale is going through the same struggles in the other room, because at that moment, I hear his deep voice as he exercises the colorful vocabulary he's picked up on while trading in the Hob, and suddenly there's a thud. He bursts through a door, dressed in a black jumpsuit similar to mine. He's furious. "Why the hell would I let you light me on fire? Do I look like I would appreciate it?"

An army of capitol attendants and peacekeepers rush out, tranquilizers in hand. I briefly wonder what kind of bodily harm he's done to his stylist, hoping she's not horribly mutilated. Gale manages to fend most of the peacekeepers off, before Cinna finally decides to intervene in the circus he's managed to create.

"Wait! I'll show you. It's absolutely safe," he pulls on a glove of the same material our suits are made of, and gingerly lights his fingers with the torch. At first, I cringe in shock, I was right, this man is completely crazy. And a masochist. But then, I realize his hand isn't burning to a crisp, as a girl who's grown up around various burn victims knows it very well should.

It's mesmerizing. The flame, though I can now see that it's synthetic, smolders and burns just as a real fire would. I remember what Haymitch told us, to trust our stylists, and feel slightly guilty. We've overreacted, and managed to completely disregard the only sane advice our mentor has offered us.

"No, Gale, I think it's alright," I say, trying to restrain Gale through a grip on his muscular arm. He relinquishes, loosening his posture and we hold out our arms to be lit with the false fire.

I grip Gale's hand for security as we parade through the capitol street, attracting more than our fair share of attention from audience and cameras alike. Our glowing costumes are irresistible in the darkening light. I glance over at Gale's face, illuminated by the flames, and he looks absolutely breathtaking. His grey eyes and black hair are perfectly accented by the flickering flames that cast menacing shadows over his strong face, and I can imagine how the capitol women will be falling over themselves to sponsor him in the games. Good.

"I think we might have a shot at it, Catnip," he whispers to me, breathless. And I'm just starting to believe him. None of the other districts have costumes that measure up to our phenomenal appearance in any way.

Our carriage halts in the center of the square, and the enormous screens that have been following our motions cut away to show the face of our president.

Snow's got powdery white skin that would look translucent if it weren't so dry. His lips are puffy as if from surgery, and uncannily red. His tongue flicks out like a viper's as he prepares to speak.

"I present you…with the tributes of the 74th Hunger Games! Who have gathered here today…so that we can remember…the dark days…and be grateful…for the changes made to this country! And so now, before I bid you good night, and I bid these tributes good luck, I say…Let the games begin, and may the odds be ever in your favor!" I watch, mesmerized, as he pauses several times throughout the short speech to lick those sick, red lips of his.

The next morning, we'll begin our training on the ground floor below us. It's also the first time we'll meet the other tributes face to face, and of course the ever omniscient game makers will be observing our actions. Haymitch, who does appear to be making an effort to remain sober, has instructed us to learn as much as we can from the various stations, and about our competitors, without giving away to much information about our best abilities.

I meet Gale on the roof of the training center, away from the cameras and listening devices that we can't help but be suspicious of. Here, however, we can speak freely. We lean against the railing that lines the perimeter of the roof, just appreciating the silence.

"The games have officially begun, now," I say, leaning into his muscular body as I enjoy the light breeze that touches my face and entwines our hair together.

"Have a happy hunger games," he laughs acidly, sighing.

I counter with a quiet, "and may the odds be EVER in your favor."

Gale sighs, tightening his hold on me, and brushes my forehead with his lips. "I'm worried about you, Katniss. These games…they've destroyed everything. Shattered our chances…we could have left, that morning in the woods, we could have made it…" he says, trailing off as he imagines the freedom we would have now had we managed to escape before the Reaping.

"We would've had nowhere to go," I say, using my carefully acquired arsenal of conciliatory skills to deflect Gale from his ever treacherous thoughts. "They would have found us, made us Avoxes. And besides, how could we leave? We have too many people at home we've got to take care of."

Gale sighs, he knows that I'm right, as much as he hates it. "I just…" his voice drops to a whisper. "I can't decide who's the enemy, we're competing for our lives against the other districts, but I think the capitol's always been the real problem."

I nod, accepting that this time he's the one who's right. But still, hating the capitol won't keep us alive. I touch his face, stroke his jaw, just trying to enjoy this quiet moment as I take in his determination.

"We should go," he says. "Effie will have a conniption."

We leave then, in the hopes of avoiding an irritated Effie, commending us for our 'spectacular' debut at the opening ceremonies, and warning us of the trials that this 'Big, big day' has in store for us. Because frankly, as tributes, our days are numbered, and there's no doubt that each and every one will be big. Monstrous.

The flamboyant woman in question is waiting for us in the dining room, among a plethora of expensive breads, rolls, and myriad other expensive breakfast items.

"They do make a point to feed us well before slaughter," Gale comments dryly, and is rewarded with a pointed look from Effie. I laugh appreciatively, because the alternative, taking this seriously, is just too painful.

Effie, though still scorning us with her disdainful expression, chooses to ignore us. "Anyways, I thought I might tell you that you have the option of training together….or separately."

Gale frowns. "I thought we would train together, no matter what. It's not like one of us has any secret from the other." When Haymitch and Effie look at me, I nod my approval. I wouldn't have it any other way. What secret could I keep from Gale?

Except, of course, the biggest one. I hate that this fact will loom over me for the rest of my life…

We are the last to arrive for the public training session, much to Effie's utter humiliation, but for Gale and I, there are far more distracting things to consider. Take, for example, the twenty two other tributes in the room: while Gale easily measures up to even the largest and strongest, the careers have all got at least fifty pounds on me. This is the competition, though; I've got to move past it, and become superior.

A hunger games official enters the room and reviews the rules and regulations, but we've all heard it a thousand other times as we watched the games at home in our own districts. However, we weren't exactly facing death in that scenario.

As we enter the gym, Gale and I survey our surroundings. There are various stations which teach skills that might mean the difference between life and death once we enter the arena. If we only knew which skills we would need.

"Time to go show 'em what we've got, Catnip," Gale says, striding purposefully toward the weaponry station, with every intention of intimidating the field as much as possible. He selects a spear, which happens to be a weapon he's never handled before, and lodges it into the heart of a dummy thirty yards away. Upon impact, the cloth and plastic figure slides backward several feet before falling to the ground. It's an excellent demonstration of his skill, and I glance up at his face just in time to see the last traces of a smug smile grace his features.

"You know, we aren't supposed to be showing off," I tell Gale. He only laughs. Despite my warning, Gale and I excel at most of the things we try: for me, climbing and edible plants are effortless. For Gale, starting a fire and weightlifting are a breeze.

The other tributes give us a wide birth the first day, leaving Gale and I free to waltz through the gym, laughing, enjoying ourselves. It's like a boring version of hunting. Effie and Haymitch would die, seeing this exhibition of our recklessness.

But then, when we sit down for lunch with the other tributes, we can't help but notice the cruel and wary glances we attract from the table where the careers sit. Gale shifts his chair carefully so that he's between them and me, and generously offers them a finger gesture that's well known throughout all of Panem.

The careers' faces, first haughty and proud, are now shocked. I try not to laugh, grabbing Gale's hand as we saunter back to the elevator that will take us up to our floor.

Inside the elevator, I find Gale carefully examining my face. When our eyes meet, he carefully extends a hand to my cheek, and pulls me closer to him. "Catnip…" he tilts his head closer to mine, and his lips are so close to mine… But the elevator comes to our floor and the doors open. He releases me, and I regretfully step away from his lean body.

Haymitch and Effie bombard us as soon as we arrive back at our floor for information about the first day's training session, and any thoughts of what just passed between us are banished from my mind.

"Do you think you'll find an alliance?"

"Did you listen, not show off?"

"Did you remember to keep up the act?"

Gale and I wait patiently until they're done with their barrage of questions to begin answering.

"I definitely don't expect to have any alliances with the careers right away," I say carefully.

When we're asked why not, Gale answers happily. "I might have flipped them off at lunch," he says, his clear grey eyes holding Haymitch's watery ones in an unwavering gaze.

Our mentor groans. Apparently, we were supposed to befriend the people who've set out to kill us. "Well, what else did you screw up today?" he continues.

"Katniss sucks at being mediocre."

"So does Gale."

Effie is furious with us. She makes sure that we're well informed of how we've ruined her chances of 'finally being promoted to a good district,' as if that was high on our priority list. Haymitch, on the other hand, is pleased we've at least gained a reasonable reputation. According to him, that's quite an accomplishment for a couple of district twelve tributes.

Gale and I meet on the roof again after dinner. I can tell when I see him that he's in the middle of one of his anti-capitol rages. I stay by his side as he vents, and even though he's whispering, the things he says are so treasonous he might as well be yelling through a megaphone.

"Gale, please," I whisper to him, stroking his face when he finally calms down. "Focus on the games – the capitol might be the enemy, but our target is to get you home safely."

That stops him in his tracks. "Wait, Katniss, what are you talking about? You're the one who'll come home from this," he says. Then I remember: I had been keeping my little scheme to bring Gale home a secret, because I had known he would never agree to it. But he has to. Our district, and the Seam, could never be the same if he didn't return there. A world without Gale would be just…unthinkable.

"Gale, please, think about Rory. Your family. Everyone back in twelve. Who depend on you…" I trail off, as I see the pain in those eyes of his.

"It's the same for you, Catnip," he whispers fervently. "We've just got to make a difference. I don't want to us be in this year's list of dead tributes. I want the country to remember the two of us." He squeezes my shoulders, then carefully presses his lips to my hair.

At that moment, I got my first glimpse into just how ruthless Gale was going to be.

The following morning, we embark on our second day's training session. Even though we we're late again, I'm beginning to enjoy the sense of rebelliousness. Why should we adhere to the Capitol's schedule?

It was as though we had formed a new resolution the previous night. We strode to the center of the room, right through the circle of careers from the 1st, 2nd, and 4th districts, straight into the center of the room, with all thoughts of mediocrity forgotten. When they opened the doors to the gym, we were the first ones at the weaponry station.

I could throw a knife with accuracy from across the room. Gale could easily wield even the most difficult, menacing weapons with a sort of deadly agility that I knew frightened everyone in the room. We navigated each station with ease.

Later, we sat at the fire starting station, building a flaming inferno that sparked and crackled, leaving a satisfying scorch mark on the floor beside it. We had given up any attempts to appear average, and were now reaching out to our full potentials. We did, however, still avoid archery and snares, planning to save those for our private sessions with the game makers.

Cato and Clove, the tributes from district one, were nearby, and we could easily overhear their conversation. Judging by the way they kept glancing our direction, I could tell that we were the topic of their discussion.

"Do we want them as allies?" Asked Clove, the ostentatious blonde.

Her companion, Cato, gazed over at us. "They'd be useful at first. I wouldn't want to come face to face with the guy at the Cornucopia. But I think we'd be asking for a knife in the back, what with that girl I got a bad feeling about her."

Clove shrugged. "That's okay, it's just the guy I was looking at, anyways," she laughs. "Let's say we kill the girl, first, then recruit Mr. On Fire to our cause."

Lightning fast, Gale's there, with beautiful, blonde Clove pinned against the wall behind them. Before I can call out to Gale, convince him to stop, Cato's there, knife drawn, charging at him. He's like an enormous bull, huge and dangerous.

"Gale, behind you!" I shout. Gale turns quickly, barely in time to catch Cato in the face with a brutal uppercut to the jaw. I hear something crack, but I can't worry about that now.

Clove is trying to help Cato, and so I leap behind her, holding her in a headlock and knocking her to the ground with my knees. She thrashes wildly, catching me in the face with one of her punches.

Nonetheless, the games official and an army of peacekeepers arrive before I can get an attack in edgewise. Gale and I stand, relinquishing the two tributes. He's got a cut under one eye, and I'm sure my face is already bruising, but we're otherwise unscathed. Gale grabs me and carries me out of the room before we can get into any more trouble with the peacekeepers, and he pushes his way through security, holding me tight against him.


	3. Chapter 3

GALE AT MY SIDE

PART 3

ENTER CAESAR, AND THE GAMES

**A/N: I don't own the Hunger Games, the characters, the setting, or any of that other ingenious stuff. I do, however, own the arrangement of the words on the page. **

**I hope you like it, even though this chapter is mostly a filler, but it leads up to the chapter when our stars enter the arena. And then the true massacre will begin. =) **

**AND, as much as I hate to say it, I would really love some of you marvelous readers out there to leave a review. I know I need the advice.**

Suddenly, we're outside, on a busy capitol street, multicolored people bustling about, with what I'm sure they think is important business. We manage to escape to an alley off the side of the main thoroughfare, where we find a moment of privacy atop a stack of wooden crates with ACME logos adorning their sides.

"Oops," laughs Gale.

I don't think our incident in the training center was funny.

What will they do to us now? We would never be able to predict the wrath of an angry capitol. I treat Gale to the most scornful expression I can muster.

"Gale, we overreacted. We've got to be more careful, I don't think the capitol is like the games, where if you're the strongest, or the most cunning, or luckiest you can win. We have nothing in comparison to the capitol. And now they're watching us. And we're the main target."

Gale swears. "I know, Katniss, but I can't help it. I'm going out fighting, the way I always knew I would. I don't regret it at all, but for the fact that I might've just hurt your chances in the games," he tells me.

While Gale's the most solid, trustworthy person I've ever known, there are still the days when I wonder if he's completely sane.

When we return to the training building for dinner, the security's been doubled, maybe tripled, as Gale notes with pride. He hugs me close to him in the elevator, kissing my hair, braiding little strands of it into intricate patterns. As I feel his full lips pressing against my, I can't help but think he's thoroughly enjoyed his afternoon.

"Don't gamble with your life, Gale. I couldn't bear it if you died," I tell him. He just tightens his grip on me, but I know that he's feeling remorseful now.

And just maybe, he's as shocked at my words as I am.

The first thing I realize when we enter the dining room is that Haymitch and Effie aren't there. Effie, however, has left us a note.

"We've decided that, based on the way you two handled yourselves today, that you can govern yourselves with dignity. Your private training sessions are tomorrow, and you're to meet with us for interview instruction the following day.

Thank you, and have a happy hunger games.

Effie Trinket"

Gale reads it aloud, then crumples the pretty purple stationary and tosses it carelessly under the table.

"They ditched us, Gale," I say, looking questioningly into his strong, beautiful, slightly bruised face.

"I know, and it's because of the way I acted today…I'm so sorry, Katniss," Gale whispers. I know he's right, but I forgive him. He was right before, too. I am prepared to leave the largest impact possible on this country.

"No, Gale, it's alright. These are our games. District twelve will finally have a winner this year." Although, I think to myself, we both think it will be the other.

Finally, we arrive for our private training sessions. There's an air of nervousness among the other tributes, but I know that Gale and I are as calm as can be.

"What are you going to show the game makers, Catnip?" Gale asks me casually.

"I think I'll just wing it," I say, laughing, even though I'm as nervous as I've ever been on the inside.

Gale frowns sweetly, and takes my hand in his calloused fingers. By now, we're the only tributes left in the gym's antechamber. He leans in toward me, and our eyes meet….

The capitol attendant, choosing his timing very well, fetches Gale and leads him into the gym. Just as the door swings shut, I call out to Gale, "Do something unforgettable."

I realize that that was probably not the best thing to say to that particular boy.

I begin notice that I've waited a long time since Gale went inside, longer than any of the other tribute's sessions. I begin to fidget nervously, imagining various horrible situations in which Gale injured himself, the game makers, or, most likely, both.

When I am finally allowed to enter the arena, it's a mess, although the capitol attendants have made an impressive effort to eliminate most of the debris Gale left behind. I can see the remains of one of his traps, a rope that's strung onto the rafters, there's paint and wine splattered everywhere, and the game makers – they're a mess. They're soaked, and their professional uniforms are stained a deep burgundy color. Whatever Gale did, I'm sure he managed to attract their attention.

Now it's my turn to drive the message home.

I begin by stringing one of the capitol bows and gathering a group of arrows. Remembering that the capitol bows are stiffer than the ones at home, I take a few practice shots at a target across the room before I begin with my true exhibition. I grab the rope Gale left behind and scale it, swinging up onto the fluorescent light so that I'm far above the game makers' heads. I toss a handful of five ceramic discs into the air, swinging on the rope by my knees, and shatter each disc directly above the heads of the game makers as they watch in awestruck silence. I swing down to the ground, adding a flip when I land for dramatic effect. I give the rope a final tug, sending the light crashing down to the floor, in a shower of sparks which are incredibly satisfying.

I excuse myself from the gym.

I wander back to our floor, where Gale, Haymitch, and Effie sit at the dining table. Gale is grinning sheepishly, and I can only imagine what Haymitch and Effie's reactions will be when we describe what we did in our private sessions.

Haymitch demands to know how awfully we've done.

"I did some shooting. Nothing spectacular, only a couple arrows may have come dangerously close to the heads of the game makers," I state matter of factly. "Oh, and I sort of shattered one of the lights. It was pretty spectacular." I allow myself to briefly enjoy Effie's expression of shock, and, surprisingly, Haymitch's admiring one.

Next, Gale describes his presentation. "I thought that the way I showed my skills was pretty ingenious," he says, laughing. "It involved traps, shooting, and strength." Effie's expression becomes even more entertaining as Gale relays the way he rigged a barrel of wine to come crashing down on the heads of the game makers, then shot the rope holding the barrel aloft.

Haymitch gets up to pour himself another drink before he has to watch us receive our scores.

I allow myself a moment to enjoy the way Gale's lips are curling upward, and remember the way they felt warm and firm against face. Instantly, I'm warm and tingly inside, buzzing with adrenaline that's partly to do with our scores, but mostly caused by the way Gale's arms have snaked around my waste. The games have messed with us, our old boundaries are gone. We're closer, but farther apart. We no longer have solid truths that we can trust, all we have is each other. And I'll be thrust into an arena, prepped to kill, before I can sort through my emotions.

We turn our attention to the television, watching as the career tributes receive expectedly high scores in the range from eight to ten, and everyone else scores in the range from medium to low. District 12 is last, as is customary, and the male tribute's score will be announced first.

Claudius Templesmith announces, "District 12: Gale Hawthorne, with a score of eleven."

Eleven. My shocked face is a mirror of my companion's expressions. Eleven is the highest score tonight, as well as the highest score in the history of the hunger games. I see Gale, and while I thought he'd have relaxed, it seems as though he's even more tense as he waits for my score than he was for his.

"District 12: Katniss Everdeen," begins Templesmith. I can feel everyone in the room, including me, draw a collective breath. "With a score of eleven."

Gale jumps up, and throws his arms around me, spinning me, he's exuberant in his joy. "Way to go, Catnip," he says, his lips brushing my ear, "but there's still some room for improvement there."

"You too, Gale," I answer jubilantly.

Effie's clapping appreciatively, her fingers splayed so that her various rings and bangles don't bang against one another. Meanwhile, Haymitch is frowning.

"That's suspicious…of course, your behavior yesterday probably had something to do with them singling the two of you out like that," he says cautiously. And I instantly see his point, now the careers will have to target us first. Too bad they'd already come to that conclusion.

When I wake up the next morning, Effie drags me away to breakfast with her, where she intends to coach me on my interview conduct. Apparently, this is a very labor intensive subject. I say various meaningless phrases starting with a smile, ending with a smile, and smiling the whole time. After fifteen minutes of this brutal exercise, my cheeks begin to twitch. Next, she instructs me how to walk, sit, and laugh. It's obvious to Effie that I had no idea how to do these things before she came to my aid.

I wonder whether anyone's ever escaped a life or death situation solely because they could walk in six inch heels.

Although I'm glad Effie's torturous two hours are over, I know that now I must face Haymitch, and his alcohol fueled criticisms. He's bound to be just as bad, if not worse.

He advises me to play up an angle in my interview, in the hopes of drawing in more sponsors.

"You know, you're typically about as boring as dirt, so I suggest you find something impressive to say at the interview," he says, and as the day gets longer, he becomes increasingly frustrated and consumes more and more alcohol, until he ceases commenting on my failed attempts at 'funny, witty, smart, sexy, et cetera' at all. Finally, I ask him what Gale's doing.

Haymitch chuckles appreciatively to himself. "He'll do fine. He walked in and told me to shut up, cause he knew what he wanted to say. I decided to give him the day off." Suddenly I wish I was imposing like Gale, and I could command instantaneous respect from anyone I encountered. But then, I worry as I consider the treacherous things Gale might say in his interview – things that could get him sentenced to death if he weren't already slated to be in the hunger games.

Lastly, I'm put in Cinna's hands, which I have now learned are more than capable, for the last hours before the live interview. My dress is amazing, a deep red, long, and bejeweled so that when I move it looks like I'm on fire. The prep team stencils gold tattoos into my skin as a finishing touch, and I'm deemed presentable.

"The girl on fire," Cinna says proudly, surveying the fruits of his labor.

I step out onto the stage, and take my seat beside Gale, who looks both gorgeous and daunting, as he typically does, in an all black suit with shimmering crimson accents. The shirt's messily buttoned, and untucked in the back, making him look bored and careless. He gives my hand a quick squeeze, and then the cameras are rolling.

Each of the tributes seems to be portraying a different personality while Ceasar Flickerman interviews them. Cato, the boy from district one, laughs, is overtly confident, and seems to be eager to finally enter the arena and start clobbering people. I notice his stylist has done a good job of concealing the bruises Gale left on his face, and his jaw has already been mended.

Clove, the girl, appears bored and unimpressed, and spends almost her entire three minutes trying to place her sheer lace dress in as suggestive a way as possible, smiling seductively both at Caesar and the audience.

Some of the tributes compliment the capitol, the amazing food, and the bright colors. Others are so frightened that they can hardly be heard, even with the astounding microphones and sound effects dedicated to the program. Others still just sit across from Caesar, dark and foreboding.

When it's Gale's turn, he lounges languidly on the chair opposite Caesar, smirking flamboyantly at the crowd. The women swoon, and I try not to roll my eyes in disgust…and maybe jealousy.

"Gale. Welcome to the hunger games," says Flickerman jovially.

Gale answers with, "Yeah, it's really great here. I'm enjoying getting to know all of these great people before ya set me loose to kill 'em." Oh, no. I can already sense one of Gale's rants coming on. He can't do that now, he can't destroy his chances at survival…

But he smiles, laughs, and luckily, Caesar laughs with him. The awkward tension that was building in the room is diminished.

"Anyways, congratulations on that eleven in training! Any hints on how you got it?" continues the host.

"It wasn't hard. The game makers must not get much excitement," Gale says, grinning again. He stretches and yawns for good measure.

"What about the capitol? Any opinions?" asks Caesar. He's obviously not aware that he's now on very dangerous ground with Gale, who's hated the capitol for as long as I've known him. I recognize the way our difficult past has instilled that kind of hate in him, and I know that my feelings mirror his.

"It's big, I guess. Colorful. Not really my thing," Gale says casually, as if he's only bored by the capitol and all of its injustices, rather than entirely hateful of it. I'm impressed, and proud of him. I wonder if I will be able to maintain composure the way he has.

"What do you think about your competition this year?"

"I'm sure I'll be fine, the other districts have produced some pretty dumb tributes, once again," he says cockily, with a glare toward the audience that dares any one of them to argue with him. Haymitch will love this. The whole capitol will love this, and Gale will have sponsors galore.

Gale, who seems to be enjoying the moment, puts his feet up on the little mahogany table where Caesar puts his coffee.

And finally, the host asks the question that I know he'll have to: "And what about the other tribute from your district, Katniss Everdeen?"

This is the first question that throws Gale. I can see the gears whirling in his head as he plans his answer. My ears perk, I'm intrigued as to what his answer will be.

"She's…different from the others," he begins. "Special. I know she's got what it takes to be a victor, and as a team, we'll be unbeatable."

The camera cuts into his face for a close-up, I can see the genuine emotion in his face for a moment before his buzzer goes off, ringing harshly throughout the entire studio.

Now it's my turn to speak with Flickerman, and it occurs to me that I haven't spared a single thought as to what I'll say. I swallow, and walk slowly forward as the camera tracks me. I feel guilty; Cinna's made me unforgettable, Gale's helped me procure a nearly perfect training score, Haymitch has bothered to remain reasonably sober, and now I'm about to waste all of their efforts. I wish I were more socially inclined.

"Ah, and Katniss Everdeen herself," says Ceasar, his eyes twinkling with false companionship. "I'm sure you're excited to be here."

I laugh, oddly amused by the preposterous question. Without thinking, I blurt out, "Why would anyone want to be here, of all places?" I ask.

Once again, there's nervous laughter in the crowd. District 12's making an impression alright, but I'm not sure it's a good one. I hurry to correct myself, saying, "I would much rather be inside, enjoying more of the spectacular capitol food than starving in an arena." Smile, Katniss, smile, I tell myself, barely managing a weak grin as I internally condemn the awful comment, and the way I'd barely managed to cover my faux pa.

"And what about your mentor, Haymitch Abernathy? I'm sure we all remember him from that eventful Reaping of yours." Caesar looks to the crowd and laughs enthusiastically, as if they're a bunch of gossiping old women.

"Haymitch…is my mentor, despite his, um, contemporary ways," I say, hoping the man in question is paying attention to this part. I'm actually rather proud of my answer this time. The cameras cut to his face, and sure enough, he's got his eyes locked on me. Good. Of course, the capitol audience thinks this is hilarious.

"And Katniss, of course, I commend you on your eleven in training. As I'm sure you know, that's quite an accomplishment."

"Thank you, Ceasar," I say. "Gale and I had been looking forward to that part."

"Ah, yes…your district partner…what do YOU think of him?" Asks Ceasar.

I try not to blush, but I feel Gale's eyes on me, ready to interpret each word I say. "He's my best friend…and so much more. I could never bear to lose him." If the way my face feels is in any way an accurate gauge of it's color, I'm sure to be blushing a deep red.

Ceasar smiles sadly, giving a pitiful little coo of sympathy. "The odds definitely weren't in your favor this year, were they Katniss?" he says.

I look out at the crowd, allowing the cameras to get a complete image of my face.

"There's no reason for that to prevent 12 having a victor again," I say, sounding stronger than I feel.

Thankfully, my buzzer goes off at that moment, saving me from delving deeper into my feelings for the afore mentioned district partner, and Ceasar apologetically sends me back to my seat beside Gale. As the show comes to a close, we rise and bow once for the cameras, as is tradition. Gale wraps his arms around me and kisses my cheek, then my nose, squeezing me tight to him so that I can feel the heat radiating off him through his thin jacket. I feel my cheeks heat up, thinking of the various cameras capturing the moment forever. Gale grabs my hand as we sweep off the stage carefully brushing my bangs back from my forehead. Rather than trying to face Haymitch and Effie, who will undoubtedly be horrified at our actions onstage, we head to our bedrooms to attempt to rest before entering the arena tomorrow.

I toss and turn for hours, twisting my sheets into sweaty knots around my knees, until I finally give up on sleep, and creep out into the hallway. Two doors down, I can see Gale's room. He's not asleep either, I can tell by the way he's posed in the bed. Not knowing what carries me into his room, I find myself sitting beside his feet. He's still wearing the silky dress shirt from the interview, but it's unbuttoned at the top now and he's thrown the accompanying tie in the corner, where it sits in a crumpled pile.

"Hey, Catnip," he whispers to me.

"Hey, Gale."

"What's up?" he asks me, as I move closer to him, leaning into his shoulder as he sits up. I shiver, simply being so close to him sends an electric shock through me.

"I guess reality finally caught up with me – I mean, within a couple of hours we're going into an arena, a fight to the death, where we'll do all that we can to kill each other, to kill other children, and anyone, no matter who they are, must die, because they'll only get in the way of your victory."

Gale listens, but frowns when I get to the part about his victory. He turns, gripping my shoulders, and holds me so I've got no choice but to look straight into his solemn grey eyes as he speaks.

"Katniss, we both know you're the one who'll be coming home from this," he tells me. "There can't be two winners, and I'm determined that the solitary victor WILL be you."

"No," I start to protest, but then it occurs to me that these are the last peaceful hours I'll have with Gale. Next time we're alone, there will probably be blood on our hands. I sigh.

Apparently he's thinking the same thing, because he wraps me in his arms and pulls me closer to him. I tremble again, my heart rate accelerates as he nuzzles my ear with his lips.

"You need to sleep, Katniss."

I lay there with him all night, enclosed in his strong chest, and we both manage to drift off to sleep a couple of times. I enjoy the warmth and safety he provides, and I wish this moment could last forever.

I reflect that Gale's all I've got now.

I awake early in the morning, and the first thing I notice is the distinct lack of Gale's body. I frantically jump up and search for him in the dim early morning light, but I can't find him. I burst out of his room, and he's still nowhere to be found.

"Gale?"


	4. Chapter 4

**GALE & KATNISS**

**PART IV**

**A/N: Well, here's my disclaimer (yadda yadda yadda, I don't own anything spectacular ****). And, here's the (hopefully) good part, that you've all been waiting for (if I'm lucky)! **

**Anyways, thanks for reading, and especially thanks for reviewing (but more is always appreciated)! I really appreciated it, and I hope you like these next chapters just as much. It was fun writing the games, but if you think I could've done a better job with some of the action scenes, tell me and I'll revise them. Really, I need any kind of help. **

**Oh! And one more question: I'm thinking about writing my own version of Catching Fire, also, since this fanfic is coming out pretty fast, but I won't publish it unless you guys think it's worthwhile. So, tell me!**

"Gale?" I'm anxious, terrified as I wonder where he might be.

Cinna, however, enters the split level and takes me to the roof, where I board a hovercraft to be taken to the arena. After my frantic questioning, Cinna reassures me that Gale has gone to the arena with his stylist.

"He's fine, Katniss. But you won't be unless you eat something," my stylist says gently. I'm not sure I can keep food down, but I force myself to drink several glasses of water.

Finally, Cinna dresses me in tight cream pants, soft leather boots, a long sleeved green shirt, and a black jacket. As a finishing touch, he carefully secures the mockingjay pin that I had all but forgotten about to my jacket. It renders a feeling of nostalgia for the days when Gale and I hunted for our meals in the woods, and I sat with Madge at school lunches, and Prim and I would weave daisy chains in the meadow behind our house, but I know I don't have long to enjoy these poignant memories.

I step onto the metal plate that will ascend, bringing me out onto the playing field where I will face the next, and last, days of my life. It rises slowly, bringing me up, up out of the catacombs, and into the arena.

I quickly scan my surroundings, seeing a lake ahead of us, a forest to our left, and vast, grassy planes on the right. Then, two tributes away from me, I see what I was most desperately looking for: Gale.

Now that I've been reassured, I focus on the golden Cornucopia, which basks in all of its bloody glory in the center of the circular formation of tributes. Scattered around the cornucopia are various supplies that will be useful for survival, with the most valuable piled in the mouth of the giant gold sculpture, and the least just steps from our feet. I could easily reach out and grab a sheet of plastic that's just feet away from me, but the real bounty is in the mouth of the cornucopia: two silver bows. I know that if we make it in and out fast enough, the careers won't want to risk getting stabbed in the back over a couple of weapons, when there are so many left for them to take at the cornucopia.

I make eye contact with Gale just as the gong goes off, and after so many years of depending on one another, that's all that we need to communicate.

We both take off at a sprint toward the Cornucopia, Gale bowls over the boy from eight without even breaking stride. The poor kid is probably already seriously injured. I push my way past a skinny black haired girl, sending her to the ground, where another tribute will most likely finish her off for me. She hits the ground with a thud, I'm impressed at the amount of damage I managed to do.

We're already at the cornucopia, we each have a bow and quiver in hand, Gale's got a pack and a handful of wicked looking knives, but the other tributes are quickly advancing on us. Gale leads, pushing his way through the onslaught, while I watch his back, bow strung and an arrow at the ready. He slices through the throat of one boy from district nine who'd threatened us with a knife, a clean cut through the skin that gushes crimson blood.

Meanwhile, I sink an arrow into the brunette girl approaching his flank. It hits her in the side with a dull thwack, and pierces her body in the place where a liver or a kidney should be. Trying not to picture the image of a metallic spearhead gouging into someone's innards, I do my best to ignore the more gruesome anatomy lessons I've learned from my mother.

Gale spins around, seeing another kid behind me, and before I've had time to fit an arrow to my bowstring, the red headed boy has got a curved scimitar drawn and poised above my head and aligned with my neck, ready to swing down and decapitate me like the guillotines used even before the dark days. Funny, I think to myself. I thought I would survive the initial bloodbath…

But then Gale saves me once again, as he has ever since we became true friends. The way he always has. He uses a length of rope, strings it around the boy's neck, and jerks backward, garroting the large, freckled boy. He chokes and splutters a few times, coughing up blood. Eyes rolling back in his head, the boy with the sword falls at our feet. Disgusting.

I choke, gag, trying to remain in control of my spinning head. I'd always managed to escape into the woods before I had to see any of my mother's patient's blood.

I have no time to consider what we've just done, the horrific incident that's just taken place…three dead, by our hands, in under a minute. I cannot panic.

Instead, we see a clear path ahead of us, and run for it, knowing it's our only hope for escape. We run at a quick, ground covering pace for hours, and I'm glad for all of the time I've spent in the woods, allowing me to maintain this breakneck pace over time. We head as far west as we can, before reaching a mountainous ravine, then we scale the side of it and head for high ground. As the sky begins to darken, we stop.

Having grown up watching the hunger games, we both know that it's time for the tributes who were killed in the initial bloodbath to be counted. That means that the fighting's over, and the careers will be regrouping and taking stock of their spoils.

I clutch Gale's hand in the semi-darkness, waiting to hear the cannon fire. Twelve shots – for twelve children killed. Children who had hopes, dreams, families, friends. That's half of the competition, obliterated. And I realize that Gale and I are responsible for almost half of it.

"Gale," I whisper, trying not to break down.

"It's the games, Katniss. Survival of the fittest," he says. "At least it wasn't you." I carefully touch his beautiful face, reading his true feelings through his eyes. And I can understand how he'd never admit that he regrets every single one of those lives, not even to himself, because he's chosen us over them. He squeezes me tighter against his chest, and I choose to follow in his example and be strong.

"We need to rest while we can. See what we've got in that pack," I say, letting my survival instinct take over.

We find a grove of tall, sturdy branched trees with thick foliage to hide us from the view of the other tributes, and dump the contents of the garish orange backpack on the ground before us. It contains a pair of sunglasses, a sleeping bag, crackers, a bottle of iodine, and an empty water bottle.

Empty. Uh oh. Empty is never a good thing.

"Tomorrow, we find water," Gale says. I'm not going to argue.

We climb high up into the tree, and strap the sleeping bag onto a branch with Gale's belt. He insists that I climb in, and he rests my head on his lap as we watch the sky for the faces of the dead tributes. Gale plays with my hair as we watch their solemn images light up the nighttime sky above us.

"Day one," I say.

"Day one," agrees Gale. He slides into the sleeping bag beside me, and wraps me in his warm embrace.


	5. Chapter 5

**GALE AT MY SIDE**

**PART 5**

WELL, HERE IT IS.

**A/N: First thing's first: I'm desperately sorry it took me so long to update (I've been out of town). Second: I'm not cool enough to own the HUNGER GAMES. And Third: time for me to chat…**

**It's hard, keeping Katniss and Gale in character, especially compared with the way I think their games would've gone. And about the ending of this chapter: don't worry, just give me a chance. So, I hope you like it!**

**P.S. I updated two chapters at a time, since I made y'all wait so long.**

**Enjoy!**

When I wake up, it takes me a moment to realize where I am. At first, all my mind registers is Gale's beautiful face so close to mine, and the musky scent of his hair, and I try to savor it as long as possible before I'm shoved harshly back into reality. I remember yesterday's deaths, and the sorrow that went with them. It's really the capitol that's been the enemy the entire time, I think. And I knew that, but it didn't prevent me from turning into a monster in the arena.

Gale awakens, squeezing me even tighter to him at first, then loosening his grip as he, too, is drawn back into the truth of where we are. I think of how the capitol viewers must be loving every second of this. As if on cue, he sits up, smiling groggily, and brushes my hair out of my face, his fingers lightly tracing my lips.

"It's time to let this begin for real," he says. "I'm tired of running away." I laugh at this, because frankly, I agree. I want these hunger games to be short, and anyways, why should we try to evade the other tributes, when we know that we'll eventually be forced together, to fight?

We jump agilely down from the tree, and prepare ourselves for today's 'hunt.' Gale sets a few snares, and I use mud and leaves to disguise the ostentatious color of the backpack. Finally, we eat a few crackers and berries we've found. "Let's go," I say. We move silently through the woods, working as a team just like we have ever since I met Gale on that fateful day in the meadow.

I'd just recently gathered the courage to enter the woods in order to gather wild plants and herbs to feed us. I had carefully gone farther and farther into the dark forest each day, and I was gaining confidence. Then I remembered the bows. My father had made them; but he had taught me how to shoot them. I'd been a pretty fair shot while he was still alive, but I hadn't practiced since. It brought back all the wrong kind of memories. But now, I knew that I had to use the bow to secure some protein to feed my family and me. Once I had retrieved the bow, I realized that I was still fairly skilled with it, and managed to shoot myself a couple of squirrels. We'd have fresh meat, tonight, I thought proudly.

Then, when I was heading back to the meadow, a glint of wire caught my eye. I cautiously turned my head, and saw a plump rabbit suspended in some sort of snare. Looking more closely, now I saw another rabbit and three squirrels also hanging amongst the trees. This array of game made my haul look measly in comparison. I carefully approached the rabbit, running my hand over the wire in admiration. My father had used snares occasionally, but I had never learned. Anyways, these traps were incredible, made by a far more skilled hand than I had ever seen before. Having seen the outcome of this skill, however, I wish I had picked up on the skill. My fingers traced the wire down to the neck of the rabbit, admiring the tight knots in the thin material.

"That's dangerous, you know," says a deep voice, that seems to come from nowhere. I jump, startled, then turn, pulling an arrow from my quiver and fitting it to my bowstring.

I see a boy, who looks about sixteen, with clear, grey eyes and long black hair that signify he's from the Seam. He looks slightly alarmed as those intelligent eyes alight on my loaded bow. He backs off a couple of steps, raising his hands cautiously.

"Where'd you get that?" He asks me.

I frown, trying to decide whether I can trust him or not. Eventually, I decide to confide in him based on the fact that what he's doing is as illegal as what I'm doing, and therefore he wouldn't be likely to sell me out for poaching. "My father made it," I say.

"What's your name?" he asks me.

"Katniss," I say, only I mumble and it comes out like a strangled whisper.

"Catnip?"

"Katniss," I say more clearly.

From that point on, Gale and I began to hunt together. While we'd been brought together by necessity, we ultimately became close and interdependent. In the beginning, we would barter ruthlessly over the haul. We would position ourselves carefully in case we needed to defend ourselves against the other. But then, at some point, we learned to trust each other. We would make sure that the other had what they needed, we would take care of each other. We began to watch each other's backs instead of our own.

But then, the cruel reality is brought back to my mind as I remember that these are not our woods, not our ways. We are no longer hunting for the well-being of our families, but to save our own lives. The easy relationship between us has been drastically altered, and the eighteen year old Gale creeps close beside me as we devise a strategy that involves the murder of twelve people.

"I want to be the threat, not the ones who're running. They should be afraid of us."

"Yeah, I think so, too."

"I want to prove to the careers and the capitol that we're not something to be reckoned with. That we're more powerful than just pawns in their endless chess game. I want to make an impact."

I cringe internally, knowing the damage that these treasonous words will make in the outside world. Gale doesn't need to make the capitol hate him the minute he steps off the victor's hovercraft. If I'm to keep him alive, I realize, I've got to preserve his future outside of the arena as well.

But then again, he's also right. I won't become just another dead tribute. I want all of Panem to remember me – for better or worse.

"Let's focus on staying alive for now," I recommend. "We need water." I know that these words will frighten Gale into action, he knows as well as I do that you can't survive long without the sustenance that water provides.

We decide to hike upward along the heavily forested edge of the ravine, not wanting to give up the advantage of elevation. We're moving at a swift pace, one that comes from years of experience in the woods, although we don't see a trace of water. I know there's some somewhere, that these trees can't survive without some kind of moisture…

And neither can we, I remember as I begin to suffer the dizzying symptoms of dehydration.

Along the way we come across a flock of an odd, geese- like bird. Gale and I have too much experience with hunting to pass up the opportunity, despite the lack of water. He takes the right and I take the left, and we work forward, alternating shots at the lead bird. I consider how similar killing these birds is to killing a human. Both actions are devastatingly alike in all technicality, a knife drawn, a bowstring pulled. But in theory, they're entirely different. A bird, or an animal, will provide us sustenance. Animals don't share human emotions. But when we end the life of a fellow humanoid, you can't help but feel tremendous guilt at the murder you've committed. A loss of human waste is nothing but utter waste. Murder and hunting - both can be the difference between life and death, and yet one leaves me at fault, corrupts my soul; and to the other I don't spare a thought.

Before the fowl have so much as spared a thought as to what's happening, we've managed to secure four of them, far more than Gale and I can eat before they go bad.

"At least we won't go hungry," says Gale. Somehow, he's managed to smile. Even a small, quick grin like his isn't something you see often in the arena.

We pluck the birds and cook them, in the hopes that they'll be preserved longer baked way than raw. We sit atop a granite boulder together, enjoying the greasy bird meat. I swing my feet, once again experiencing the melancholy feeling that this is so close, and yet so far, from the way things were before the games. I lean my shoulder into Gale's, he wraps an arm around my waist.

"Don't worry, Catnip," he mutters. "We'll be okay." I allow myself to take this moment for a brief reprieve from the stress and tension I've been working under for weeks. I enjoy Gale's woody smell, breathing in the scent that allows me to relax and remember happier times. He rests his chin on my forehead. Contentment is another rare thing in the arena, happened upon only by chance.

We walk farther, continuing into the afternoon. We know that by now the careers will be out hunting the weaker tributes, picking off the easier prey as a team. I'm expecting to hear the sound of cannon fire soon, knowing that things are getting far too dull for the game makers' tastes.

"Does it seem weird that we haven't seen any of the other tributes yet?" I ask, voicing my thoughts out loud.

Gale frowns, nods. "Hopefully they're avoiding us because we're so impressive," he jokes.

"I think we're sort of a main target," I say, enjoying the way my hand bumps against his as we hike. However, our light, joking mood is destroyed moments later. At first I'm rewarded by the sound of rushing water, but then I see the small figure kneeling beside the stream. It's the girl from eleven, the one who reminded me of Prim. I look quickly at Gale, see that he hasn't drawn his weapons the way he would have if he were about to make a kill. Instead, he looks questioningly into my eyes. I know that this choice belongs to me, but I can't make it alone. The careers are a main target, they'd kill one of us without thinking twice, and I'm sure that when the time comes we'll do the same. But this girl is too much like the children at home who we've dedicated ourselves to protecting…

But then again, we can't stand here, wasting our advantage of surprise. We need the water, but we don't want to draw her into combat. Gale looks at me one more time, and I know he's made up his mind. He draws his bow, aims, and fires.


	6. Chapter 6

**GALE AT MY SIDE**

**PART 6**

TAH-DAH (AS PROMISED)!

**A/N: Please recall all that depressing information about my non-ownership of the hunger games ****. **

**And, once you've done that, you can enjoy the story! **

**Remember, I am a greedy little pig, who is entirely fond of reviews (honestly, I couldn't be more materialistic).**

The arrow penetrates exactly where he meant it to, in the soil at the girl's feet. She doesn't even spend time to look at us, just flees into the trees, like a rabbit or a bird taken over by the instinct for escape. We've avoided confrontation, established ourselves as a dangerous force, and secured a source of water.

I couldn't love Gale more.

I turn to him, thank him, eyes stinging. He wraps his arms around my waist, strokes my hair gently. "Thank you, Gale," I murmur appreciatively.

"I knew what you needed, Catnip," he says. "But next time, I won't be aiming at the ground." I know by the hardened look in his grey eyes that he's dead serious.

I wouldn't want to be the next tribute to run into him.

I crouch by the stream and fill the water bottle while Gale stands behind me, keeping watch to make sure that no one creeps up on us like we did to that tiny girl from 11.

"I think her name was Rue," Gale says quietly. "She's lucky."

Yes, she was lucky. Lucky that Gale knew me so well, could think so quickly, could make the right decision every time. But there won't be a second time, I decide. Gale's not going to have to save me again, and the next time I get the opportunity, I shoot to kill. These are the Hunger Games, and I plan for Gale to come out alive. "You won't have to cover for me again," I promise Gale.

"It's nothing," he mutters, preoccupied with something. I look up and see him cleaning the blade of his knife on the hem of his shirt, leaving a greasy stain from the goose fat.

"What is it, Gale?"

"I hate this, this not being dangerous. We can run and run, but eventually we're going to get caught," he says harshly. "What if it were a pack of the careers there, instead of little Rue? We need to become the enemy."

I couldn't agree more.

We spend the rest of the day preparing, planning, getting to know the topography of the land. We climb up into a tree to sleep, in attempt to give us as much edge as possible before we head out on the second leg of our time in the arena: the time spent as the predators.

Gale demands that he take first watch, shushing me when I try to object. He waits until I've climbed into the sleeping bag, and then pulls me onto his lap. He holds me in his strong arms, tracing the contours of my face as I slowly drift off to sleep.

I wake up to Gale's face again, something that I'm getting far too used to. His arms, also, are beginning to become a necessity for my peaceful sleep. I see his full, beautiful, slightly chapped lips less than an inch from my nose, and I feel his warm, steady breath on my face. I admire his dark eyelashes and heavy brows, the glossy blackness of his hair. I reach my hand slowly away from his toned chest to touch the beautiful hair. It's amazing, I stroke it gently, weave my fingers into it. Gale draws in a sharp breath, and I carefully withdraw my hand, extricating myself from the sleeping bag before he wakes up.

I prepare the pack with what we've decided to bring with us, leaving most of the goose behind. It's a horrible waste to someone who's grown up eating only what she could catch herself, but I know that we can't bring it with us, either. Not when speed and subtlety are some of our greatest advantages.

I refill the water bottle, and distill it with a few drops of the iodine. I prepare our weapons, and set out a breakfast of cold, greasy goose for Gale.

And after he's awoken, we begin the trek. We don't have a particular destination in mind, we just track the careers, so we keep the pace to a steady jog. I enjoy the way our strides are synchronized, the sound of our breath, the way our muffled footfalls are almost soundless.

Along the way, we detect a few traces of human evidence. There's an abandoned campfire, some crumpled leaves, and a few other signs of the nearby tributes, but nothing we can definitely relate to a group of the careers.

"I think they'd be by the lake," I say, hypothesizing based on Games that I've watched at home as a child. "There's no reason for them to try to hide in the woods, but they might be out hunting for us."

Gale nods, adjusting the straps of the pack. "Let's go. Even if they're not there, maybe we can still find some way to give ourselves an advantage."

We cross the ravine again, heading back toward the lake that's at the center of the arena with the thought of reconnaissance firmly planted in our minds. I contemplate Haymitch. I wonder what he's thinking as he watches us, interpreting our every moves. I wonder whether we have any sponsors, or if Haymitch is just too drunk to handle the responsibilities of a mentor. He did promise, though…I attempt to reassure myself.

Dusk is approaching as we finally advance on the lake. Gale and I take vantage atop a rocky outcropping that sits above the career's camp, and settled down beside one another to watch the sky.

There was only one death today: The girl from 10. I wonder about her family back home, and whether they really had confidence that she would come home as a victor, or if they had resigned themselves to the fate of her death the moment her name was pulled from the giant reaping ball.

"We're more than halfway through now, Catnip."

"Yeah, but now we're down to the half that really matters," I say.

We sit in silence as the careers return to their camp. The tall, muscular boy, Cato, leads the group as Glimmer, the boy from her district, the boy from 3, and Clove follow him. They're armed to the teeth with various menacing weapons, Clove's got knives sprouting from every possible orifice of her body; Cato, while he could easily incapacitate an enemy with his bare hands (I've seen him practicing on a dummy), has secured several swords to his belt and is casually brandishing a frighteningly large spear, and Glimmer's carrying what can only be described as a machete.

"Who's left, still?" asks Cato.

"The girl from 5, but not the boy, he was the one who burned us with that torch of his, both from six are gone, the dark pair from 11 are still alive, we just killed the one from 10, but that leaves the girl…"

"It's too bad lover boy and coal chick are still out there," complains Clove. She's never been a fan of mine.

"We take them out next," promises Cato.

Gale flinches beside me, tensing to attack. I'm afraid what started out as a reconnaissance mission will turn into a battle, and that we won't come out on top. The odds of winning this battle, after all, are not in our favor.

"No, Gale!" I hiss, as he crouches into a shooting stance like a tiger.

"Let's not give them time to hunt us," he mutters darkly. "We've got the element of surprise." His bowstring is drawn, and he's fitting one of those deadly arrows to the taught cord. But my foot knocks a pebble loose, sending it tumbling down the face of our rock…and making just loud enough a noise to alert the careers to our presence.

Cato looks up, shouts, points at us. The rest of the careers are soon on their feet as well.

I swear.

Gale runs, jumps, slides down the slick surface of the granite we'd been so precariously seated on. He sends an arrow flying toward the careers, and it barely misses the small boy from 3. I'm soon after him, drawing my bow as well. Gale's below me now, he's switched to the use of knives in the event of close combat. He twirls amid the careers, managing to fend all of them off, despite the fact that he's outnumbered four to one, but I know he won't be able to maintain it for very long. I try to aim, to shoot, to help Gale, but I can't. He's moving too fast, I couldn't shoot for fear of hitting him instead of my true target. I weigh my options, then make the split second decision to join the fight myself. I sprint, lodge a knife into the boy's shoulder. It sticks, lodged in the muscle and oozing thick streams of blood, but he's not dead yet. Before I can finish him off, Clove and Glimmer have turned to me, and I'm forced to abandon the offensive in order to dodge the swipes of their gigantic swords. Those swords are probably heavier than anything I would ever stand a chance of lifting, I try to avoid the possibility of the things that could happen if one were to be lodged in my cerebellum.

Meanwhile, Gale is thoroughly engaged with Cato. My God, he's got an axe. It's a giant, cruel, terrifying thing that could probably slice me clean through. He swings it violently above his head, trying to swing it through Gale's neck. Cato is as heavy as Gale, and just as fast, but he's got the bigger weapons, and Gale is distracted with trying to protect me at the same time.

This is not the way events are supposed to be unfolding. I quickly break away from my adversaries, slicing through the first layer of soft skin on Clove's cheek with the razor sharp edge of my knife as I pass. I aim another at Cato, and Gale uses the second of distraction I've provided to slam into his side. Something inside of the giant boy makes a disgusting cracking sound, and he falls to his knees before us. Gale raises his knife, preparing to kill Cato, but then he hesitates for the slightest second, a look of remorse in his eyes, and he's lost his chance as the others approach.

Glimmer's advancing on me, and the boy from 3 has taken this moment as an opportunity as well. He slashes at Gale, forcing him back toward me, and I stumble. Right into Glimmer. She slashes at me with her knife, cuts my leg. It's deep, I can tell. I can almost feel the blade reaching down to the whitish bone of my femur before it loses momentum in the tendons and muscles it slices through. Gale turns, stabs her somewhere in the chest area. I hear her cry out helplessly.

Cannon.

I'm loosing blood, I can't focus, there's two, maybe three copies of everything and I can't tell what's real. All I can see for sure is red, the red that stains the cream sands of the beach, the red of my blood, the red of the boy's blood, and something else red that I can't place.

Gale turns again, finishes off the boy from 3 through a blow to the head. His skull crunches, the rock Gale used leaves an impressive dent in his cranial region. Clove is beside Cato, they're half running, half stumbling along the beach, trying to escape. Gale will be pleased that they're finally the ones running.

Canon. I wonder if it's for me as the world fades to blackness and my body finally collapses on the soft, grainy sand of the beach. The last thing I feel is water lapping at my feet, and I question whether it's the lake, or if I truly am delusional with blood loss now.

I'm vaguely aware of strong arms around my body, and when I wake up, the first thing that I notice is a searing pain in my left leg, high up where my thigh joins with my hip. Second, I feel a cool cloth on my forehead and rough but warm fingers stroking my cheek.

"Katniss?" says a worried voice.

I crack my eyes open a teeny bit, there's Gale, and we're in some sort of a cave. His face is inches from mine, and he looks as though he's aged three years in just the few days we've been in this place.

I decide that it's a miracle we're both still alive…unless I've died and this is all a figment of my imagination…I really can't tell.

"Katniss?" he asks again. He sounds terrified, I wonder if I should answer him. It's a difficult task just to open my mouth, I'm not sure I'll be able to make my tongue shape words.

"Yeah," I croak halfheartedly.

"Thank God, you're alive. I was panicking…" Gale trails off, embarrassed. "You scared me, Catnip." He hands me the canteen, I try to take a drink, I'm parched and dizzy with the lack of water.

"You lost so much blood…"

I remember the wound on my leg. Glimmer must've cut an artery. I look down, and see that there's some sort of tourniquet at the base of my thigh. I realize that it's his shirt, torn into strips to tie around my leg.

Gale frowns apologetically. "It's the best I could do… Your mother's the medic, not mine."

"It's alright."

Gale tries to get me to eat, but I'm having trouble focusing long enough, and I can't manage to work up an appetite. I think I swallow a few bites of goose here, a mouthful of some sort of plants there. Whatever he can coax me to eat. I sleep again, waking in the middle of the night.

It's swelteringly hot, I'm in the sleeping bag with Gale beside me. I'm sweaty, thirsty, hot. Probably also delirious. And my leg hurts like nothing I've ever felt before…

"Aaah," I whimper.

Gale sits straight up, he's awake immediately, drawing a knife from his belt with one hand while the other wipes the dark, messy hair out of his eyes.

"Katniss?"

"I'm okay," I whisper, but my voice is to quiet, I'm not sure that he heard. He seems to remember where he is, because his grey eyes focus in on my matching ones. His are narrowed shrewdly.

"We need to look at your leg, Catnip. I think you're getting worse. You have a fever." That explains the awful temperature, I think.

He carefully lifts me out of the sleeping bag, and begins to unwrap the tourniquet. I don't know where my pants are, he must've removed them to bandage the wound. I didn't realize how high up it was until his hands were there…

Gale cusses. I wince, the cut must be worse than I thought, but I'm afraid to look.

"Am I gonna make it, Doctor Hawthorne?" I ask, attempting to joke, but my voice sounds pathetic.

He smiles sadly, and I can tell he's just as frightened as I am. "Not funny."

"That bad, huh?" I croak. I still can't force myself to look at it.

"I'm no healer, but…I think I know what an infection is when I see one. We need to wash this out."

I protest, try to convince him that it's going to be fine. But he's headstrong in his opinion that we need to wash it out, and I can't keep up an argument when I've lost so much blood and I'm so lightheaded.

I realize just how bad it really is when I black out trying to stand up.

Gale catches me, gently, and tenderly carries me to the stream.

"I can walk," I argue.

"Ha." He sets me down on the edge of the river, I marvel at how strong he is to lift me so effortlessly. He crouches in front of me, coaxing me into the water. Trying to keep from slipping, I accidentally look down and see the festering gash that's a thick, red line right across the very top of my thigh.

I gasp. The wound's deep, I can see several inches into my flesh where it's peeling back from the bone. It's taken on a purplish quality around the edges, and horrifying red lines spiderweb out from it in all directions. Blood poisoning.

"Disgusting, isn't it, Catnip?" His eyes are searching mine, trying to read how much pain I'm in. I'm not going to let him know. I was right in not wanting to see it.

"I've seen worse." I lie. "Mining accidents."

"Those victims usually don't live," Gale reminds me. And I know he's right, he's referring to the blast that killed both our fathers. I remember all those times when patients were brought to my mother, only to be turned away…her knowing there's nothing to be done for them. That they should be put out of their misery…

I'm dangerously close to being unsaveable.


	7. Chapter 7

**GALE AND KATNISS **

**PART 7**

**Okay, so guess who has an enormous confession to make? **

**Me. I've already finished the story, and have just been holding off on you because I was to dang lazy to post it. Wow. Sorry. I NEED some motivation, as you can see. Maybe a plethora of reviews, from myriad readers would do that for me? Just a suggestion. Anyways, from now on I'll be updating quickly, like once I reach a certain amount of reviews, and I'll have each chapter edited and ready to go before then (saving my lazy self from too much procrastination). **

**Disclaimer: I'm not Suzanne Collins, but she is my aunt. **

**Not really, that's a fat lie. But I'm running out of creative disclaimers. **

**ENJOI**

Gale proceeds to clean the wound as I focus on staying alert. I'm woozy, dizzy, I can't focus. Mostly because of the blood loss, partly because of the times when his fingers brush my bare thigh.

"Ow," I groan. He uses the waterskin to rinse away the dirt and dried blood, his calloused fingers brushing against my bare thigh.

"You'll be alright," Gale murmurs. I realize that he's still shirtless, as his is lying in the river, soaked red by my blood. "You have to be."

I wince, trying not to move to much as he cleans the wound out. I can't stand to have anything inside the cut, it's pain like I could never have imagined before. He presses down on the flesh around the cut, and a gruesome mixture of opaque liquid and thick, clotted blood spews out.

"Eugh," I say.

Gale looks up at me, his eyes a mixture of amusement and mostly concern. I know he's terrified for me. He rinses out the shirt and reties it at the base of my leg. I watch, mesmerized, as his strong fingers carefully ensnare my limb in the wet cotton. When he's done with the tourniquet, he trails his fingers up my side, resting them at my back.

I notice that I've been holding my breath.

I gasp for air, then he leans in, like he's about to kiss me, but then his lips, which looked so warm and comforting, veer off path, and gently brush my cheek as his fingers stroke my hair, winding themselves in the dirty strands as his other hand carefully supports my back.

The excruciating pain in my thigh is completely forgotten, until Gale slowly pulls away. I wish I weren't so dizzy, I wish I could withstand any amount of feeling right now.

Gale just kissed me. I can't even comprehend the thought in my current mental state.

First, I'm irritated that he ended the kiss, but then I notice the silver parachute he's now holding.

"What's that?" I ask.

"A gift." He slowly unwraps the nylon and plastic, and within the packaging he finds a small glass vial and a medical needle. "Some kind of knife…" he says, holding up what I recognize as a medical scalpel.

Medical supplies are expensive. Really expensive. A sponsor wealthy enough to buy that much of it could easily afford to keep the entire District 12 lavishly cared for for more than an entire year. I wonder where Haymitch has found that much money…

Do we really have such willful sponsors?

And I'm jealously aware that the most likely reason all of those people in the capitol are sponsoring us is that Gale's still shirtless. And muscly.

"I think we know what this is for."

"It doesn't make sense that Haymitch would send us this instead of a real medication, if the wound's really that bad. It's not like anything we can do with this thing is going to make it better."

"Damn, why couldn't he have just sent us a first aid kit?" Yells Gale.

"I bet the careers have plenty of those. And they're probably way more expensive to buy," I reason. "He probably thinks we'll pull through."

"I'm going to get you one," promises Gale.

No. That isn't fair, it's not the way this was supposed to go: I can't let Gale go to face the careers alone, especially for me. I can't go with him, I'd be a hindrance. This is so wrong; I'm supposed to be protecting him, not the other way around!

I try to protest, he just clamps a hand over my mouth and scoops me up, carrying me back to the cave where we slept the previous night.

"You can't stop me. You can't follow me. There's no reason to be difficult," argues Gale.

"No. Stay here. It'll be alright," I'm pleading with him now, praying that he'll finally see reason.

Ha. I never had a chance in reasoning with him. Gale is single mindedly stubborn in his determination. Like a mule.

"I'm sorry, Catnip, but this is what's important now."

Eventually, after about a half hour has passed, I realize that I'm only squandering his time, wasting it on fruitless attempts to threaten and bully him into staying with me. The only thing I can do is help him, prepare him so that he'll come back safely.

I hand him his weapons, warn him to stay hidden where they can't see him. I help him tuck the various knives away in his boot, the wrists of his shirt, inside his jacket, up his pantleg. He has a full quiver of arrows and a bow, he's also wearing my jacket on top of his since I've got the sleeping bag.

I struggle to sit in an upright position so that I can kiss him goodbye, he leans down for me.

"Stay where I put you, Catnip," he commands me, reluctant to leave me by myself.

"Come back, Gale. I need you to come back," I remind him.

Waiting for his return is torturous. I carefully arrange and rearrange the backpack, I sort through the food, and I comb through my hair as I try to ignore the throbbing pain in my leg. It's swelling now, the flesh around the open wound is red and shiny. I try to keep it clean, but it seems as though it's magnetic to the dirt and all of the bacteria living inside of it.

And still, the one emotion overshadowing all the pain is anxiety. I wait a day, a day and a half. Gale had warned me that it could take him a long time to return, we had both been prepared for a long wait. I watch the sky every night, there are two new deaths, and we're down to the final eight tributes.

Finally, on the second night, it all changes. I hear a cannon in the distance, I know that Gale would have acted by now, if he ever did. I hope like I've never hoped before that the cannon wasn't for him, I try to convince myself that it wasn't, that Gale is too smart to die like that. I try to make myself believe that he's probably had to ambush someone, that he's now finally found someone who had medicine.

I think that I would know inside if the cannon really did belong to him. I imagine that I would be able to feel it inside of me, if my best friend died.

These pitiful hopes are the only thoughts that I have left to reassure myself with.

The night is awful. I wait and wait, but he doesn't come. I hardly manage to drift in and out of a fitful sleep.

And then finally he does come, late at night. He looks the best I've ever seen, he's gorgeous even though he's spent a week in the arena.

"Gale!"

"Hey, Catnip," he greets me, holding up a little whitish bag with a red cross embroidered on it. "Let's look at your leg."

I unwind his shirt from my thigh, and I see that the infection has gotten worse. Quickly, I try to cover it up with my hands before he can see the extent of the damage.

Gale cusses brutally.

"It's nothing," I say, trying to convince him.

"Your mother may be the healer, but I'm not an idiot," he informs me. "I know what blood poisoning is."

And he's right, the little red lines spreading higher up my leg are telltale signs that the infection's only getting worse.

"I think…I think we need to close the wound so it can heal," he says carefully, his face inches from my skin as he leans over to inspect the damage. "And I think there may be some gravel in it. We need to get it out. That's what the scalpel's for."

"Now?" I whimper.

"Now," confirms Gale. "It'd only get worse if we waited."

I watch in a daze as he goes about heating the scalpel over the fire, how he prepares the needle and thread. He leans over and kisses me briefly on the forehead.

"Ready, Katniss?" he asks.

I can only nod, I'm afraid that if I open my mouth I'll puke.

He takes my arm gingerly by the wrist, squeezing gently. "Tell me if I hurt you," he whispers.

He uses the iodine from our backpack to clean the wound. It stings, but I know there's pain a million times worse to come. I grind my teeth, gripping his shoulder as I try to ground myself to reality, preparing for what's to come.

His eyes glance up to mine apologetically, and I see the thin blade of the scalpel glint as he moves it closer to the skin of my leg. Ever so gently, he slices into the wound, and carefully removes a bloody, festered splinter from my flesh.

I avert my eyes as he digs deeper with the scalpel, trying to locate and remove any traces of gravel or wood that have intruded upon my flesh.

It's disgusting, it's the most painful thing I've ever felt. I squeeze Gale's shoulder harder, needing support and comfort. I hold on tight, imagining that if I can just hold on long enough I'll be alright.

He pours more iodine on the mutilated cut that obscures the skin of my leg, it burns even worse this time.

"Katniss?" he murmurs. "Are you alright? Catnip!"

I struggle to focus on his face, it's blurry now and I'm seeing double from the pain. "Mhmm," is all I can bear to mumble.

"I'm gonna sew it up now, Catnip."

I try to nod, try to stay conscious as I watch his grey eyes. He frowns, concentrates, I think he's trying to thread a needle. He must've gotten it in the first aid kit. That thing will be our savior.

I make the mistake of looking down again; I see the needle that he's going to use to make stitches in my flesh like a seamstress in her fabric. Like Cinna, with a yard of silk.

His fingers lightly touch my skin as he finds a place to insert the needle, and then the thread and the needle plunge into me. I try to ignore the slip and slide of the thread through the membrane of my flesh.

"Eugh," I groan.

"Almost done," he promises me.

I grimace, doing all that I can to avert my eyes while he ties the thread and burns the tip, securing it. Finally, Gale dabs a little more of the precious iodine onto the injured part of my leg, and he's done.

"You can sleep now, Katniss," he tells me. I slump against the rock behind me, and he comes over and wraps his arms around me after he's washed my blood from his hands.

At last, in the safety of his arms, I allow myself to sleep.

I wake up with a throbbing headache, and Gale is gone. The dismal rays of sunshine that reach me in my hiding place alert me to the fact that it's late in the afternoon. I sit straight up, wondering how long I've been asleep, and am rewarded for my troubles with an ear splitting headache.

I look down and see the messy stitches across my upper thigh, and remember how Gale had dug out the little pieces of gravel and sewn it up for me before I had passed out.

I try to stand up, to leave the cave, but I can't, I'm hit by a wave of nausea that sends me crashing to the floor once again.

And there's one question that's been bothering me.

Where's Gale?

I need to know where he is. I ponder the options left to me if I can't walk. I could crawl outside, exposing me to anyone in search of an easy target. I'd be not only in danger of the careers then, but the other tributes, and probably any predatory animal larger than a badger. I could call out to him, but that would expose my position to any tributes who happened to be nearby. Or I could wait, trusting in the knowledge that Gale knows what he's doing, and will come back soon.

Supposing that either of the first options could be potentially dangerous to him as well as myself, I force myself to wait for him.

If I were ever to know insanity, this would be it. The only thing keeping me from going to pieces is the fact that I haven't heard the sound of canon fire. That means no deaths since I woke up, and Gale is still alive. I play with my fingers, bite my nails off, shredding the last traces of Cinna's beautiful work into pieces. I grind my teeth, I chew on the inside of my mouth until it's bloody and raw. I tear the cuticles off of my fingers, pick at my skin.

Insanity. Being without Gale is insanity.

When I finally see him again, he looks better than he ever has to me. He's like a god, with his lean, athletic build, long black hair, dimples, and gorgeous grey eyes. And, my favorite, he's alive and well.

He smiles sarcastically, holding a couple rabbits in one hand and a first aid kit in the other.

"Nice bounty," I tell him. I have to forgive him for leaving without me (again), I know our store of food was running out.

He smiles again, and I could almost forget we're in the hunger games and remember those happy days of us hunting together in the woods, when I was just a little girl, he was like my older brother. When our ability to protect the other wasn't all we had keeping us alive.

Of course, sadly, I have to remember that the Hunger Games are our lives now.

"How's your leg?" he asks me, unwinding his shirt so that he can look at the wound.

"It's just a scratch," I say, in a weak attempt at a joke, cuing Gale to give me the most forlorn, pitiful face I've ever seen anywhere other than on a month old puppy's face.

"Oh, Catnip…" his voice trails off as his thumb and forefinger trace the cut. It hurts, but I also enjoy the feeling of his fingers on my skin.

"I think the swelling went down a little bit," I say, trying to console myself as much as him.

"Maybe," he allows. He opens the first aid kit he's procured and opens a little bottle.

"Eat this," he commands.

I do. "What is it?"

"Anti-inflammatory."

Next, he takes a netted gauze out of the little white box, and proceeds wrapping the cut in it.

"Where'd you get that?" I ask him.

"You were out for a long time," he says carefully.

"And?"

"There's one less tribute to contend with now."

"Who?" I couldn't stand it if it was little rue…

"Don't worry, Catnip, it was one of the careers. Your life is more important to me than theirs."

"So…you went to the career camp again?" I clarify.

"No! Well, actually, sort of. Yes," he's reluctant to admit. "And I didn't do a great job about covering my tracks, they're being more careful than they were before…"

"So?" I press him further.

"So, I ran into a couple of them. Glimmer, the boy from one. Cato, and Clove again. They weren't too happy that I was taking their stuff. So…when they saw me, I snagged this and ran. They tried to follow me, only the boy managed to keep up. I wasn't about to let him follow me."

I listen with rapt attention as Gale relays his story. It occurs to me that I should be more concerned with the fact that Gale's just killed another person, but what really bothers me is that he put himself in danger…again.

I want to swear at him, to punch him, to do anything that will make him see sense and start to value his own life.

"Don't do that again, Gale. I could never be happy without you," I plead.

"You wouldn't get better, either, you know. And besides. It's you that needs to come home. We all love you."

I'm tired, I'm having trouble keeping up with this conversation. But there is one more ace-in-the-hole that I've got.

"What about Rory, Posy, your mother? They need you, Gale. They love you." He frowns at me.

"Nice try, Katniss. Go back to sleep," he demands.

I try to fight the exhaustion, but I can't help but do as he says. Again. I make a mental note to wake up in time to keep watch while he sleeps. I'm sure, stubborn as he is, he hasn't slept in days. At least since I got cut.

When I wake up in the morning, he's there this morning. He's pulled me inside the sleeping bag with him, I'm cradled against his strong, sculpted chest, and his chin rests lightly on top of my head.

I enjoy watching him sleep, feeling his warm breath heating my face and neck, the way his body feels around mine. I realize that I love him, more than I've loved anything. Anyone. That my life, despite the hardship and grief, would be unworthy without that fateful day when we met in the woods.

My family was taken from me when I volunteered for the games, I sacrificed them to save them. And Gale did the same…in that action, I gave everything up for him.

And that's why he's coming out of these games alive.

The world, everything I've dedicated myself to, would be worthless if he wasn't there to give it life.

I think about my mother, Prim. How he would never think twice about caring for them in my absence.

I consider his fiery temper, the times in the woods when he would explode, shouting childish, hateful things about the capitol. I realize that we are so much closer to doing anything about the capitol now than we ever were then. That we could make a real difference, here in the arena.

I remember what he said about wanting to leave a mark on the world.

He is going to.

I extend a hand from within the warmth of the sleeping bag and carefully touch his face. The black hair that's always obstructing my view of those clear grey eyes. I trace the strong, handsome planes of his face, feeling the skin of his cheeks, his jaw underneath my fingertips.

"I love you, Gale," I whisper.

I wonder if there are any cameras watching us now.

He awakens an hour or so later, I watch as he moves carefully, trying not to hurt me and my leg.

I hand him a hunk of goose.

"Yum, breakfast," he says.

I smile. I know the world would be an awful place without him in it somewhere.

"Gale?" I ask. It's time to get back in the games, become a contender again. The careers have seen Gale, but they haven't seen me in a while. We're lucky that we're both still here. "Who's dead?"

"I think there are only a couple of us left now. Glimmer, Cato and Clove, the girl from 5, who looks sort of like a fox? Thresh and Rue, and us. The careers have been hunting along the edge of the forest, they've managed to eliminate anyone who came to close to them. They don't go too far into the forest though, I think they're afraid of us. Which is good."

Eight left, total. This means that now's when the betting will be getting heavy, when we'll be receiving the most gifts from our sponsors. And at this stage in the game, even the smallest gift can mean the difference between life and death.

"You haven't…um, gotten any gifts from sponsors while I was out, have you?" I ask slowly.

"No," Gale says. "I guess Haymitch dried up all our funds with that scalpel."

"I would've thought we had more sponsors than that…"I murmur.

He frowns, deep in thought.

"I think our next move should be to split up the career pack," I say. That is, once I can walk again.

Gale nods his agreement.

"Later," he promises.

I rest for what seems like a lifetime. I know another tribute has died, I think it's the redheaded girl. Gale tells me the careers were chasing her for days, she managed to run and hide, just barely eluding them for an incredible amount of time before they finally ambushed her.

"That's why the game makers have been giving us a break," I deduce. It's been entertaining enough watching her try to escape.

"She's dead now, the rest is over," says Gale, reminding me of the inevitable. "Do you think you can walk?"

I gradually recover enough to the point where I'm ready to hunt again. Ready to rejoin the massacre that is the games.

Gale and I begin to devise an offensive strategy.

"We need to do something to stop the careers," I say. "They're still way to strong."

"They've got everything. They're talented, that's why they volunteer. The only thing I bet they can't do is hunt for themselves, and they've got all the food they want."

By the look in his grey eyes when he says this, I know he's just had the same idea I did.

"We can change that," I say.

We gather our weapons, Gale makes me run through stretches and exercises to make sure that I'm sound enough to fight, if it comes down to that. We pack our bows and our knives, and prepare to leave the cave.

I plan to loop around eastward, setting fires to lure the careers away from their camp. Meanwhile, Gale will move westward, and find a way to destroy the career's supplies while he waits for me.

I'm just shouldering my bow when he calls out to me.

"Hang on, Catnip." I hear Gale's voice behind me. I turn around, and see his black hair blowing in the wind, his grey eyes searching mine for something I can't place.

"Yeah?" I ask. I wonder if I'm forgetting something, I recheck my quiver.

"There's one thing I needed to do before we go," he says, taking my hand in his. He carefully puts it on his shoulder beside his neck, then slides his arms down low around my waist, ensnaring me the way he'll ensnare a rabbit in one of his traps. I rest my hands on his shoulders, mirroring him as he tips his head in toward mine. I tremble and my heart thuds. We stand like that, not moving, for several minutes. I don't breath, I'm afraid to break the moment.

And finally, painfully slowly, his lips meet mine. It's fire and ice, it's amazing. The feel of his slightly chapped lips on mine is like magic, and I know that this kiss was a long time coming. One of his hands comes slowly up my back to cradle my head, and he winds his fingers in my hair. My entire body shakes. This is the first time he's kissed me when I was fully conscious.

When his lips leave mine, it's a tragedy. I feel as though something vital has been ripped out of me, I need his mouth on mine again.

"Gale," I say, feeling his hair tickle my neck.

"Yeah, Catnip?" He says as he slowly steps back to look at me.

I don't say anything, though. I lean in, and this time I kiss him. Our lips move together in perfect synchronization, I'm so lost in the moment I forget we're in the games, just enjoying the strong, piney taste of him and the warmth that spreads throughout my entire body as we press tight into each other.

All too soon, he gathers my hands and gives them back to me.

"We've got work to do, Catnip," he says. I remember the mission at hand. "Be careful."

"You too," I say quietly, breathless.

I stand for a minute, watching his strong figure, the planes of his back, as starts to jog toward the lake.

Then I turn and go, too.

The woods are empty without him by my side, even though you'd never hear so much as a whisper out of him when we're hunting. I feel vulnerable, I find myself glancing around every few steps to be sure there's no one following me. I don't function half as well without Gale watching my back.

I eventually come to the place we've chosen for the first fire. I gather plenty of green kindling, ensuring smoke, and coax a flame from the dry wood. I blow on the small flame, causing the rest of the wood to catch fire as well, until the little spark's become a blazing inferno. I briefly ponder the irony of getting killed through a forest fire I started myself, before I move on.

The next site is a ways away, we wanted to give the careers time to leave the camp before lighting a second fire, because now they'll be suspecting it to be some sort of trap.

After I've lit the second fire, I take off at a jog for the rendezvous point where I'll meet Gale. I travel at a swift pace, knowing that our time's limited. As the trees begin to thin, I catch my first glance at the lake. The way the careers have placed their food is confusing, the piles of crates and supplies that mimic the way the cornucopia was arranged seems almost haphazard.

I advance on the rocky ledge that overlooks the camp, and find Gale perched there, his brow set in a frown.

He looks up, silently acknowledging me. "It's a trap," he explains. "See the way it's set up? It's like they're encouraging someone to try and steal something. I think it's bombed."

I'm about to ask how someone could ever manage to create an explosive in the arena, when I remember the mines beneath the platforms surrounding the cornucopia. The game makers provided plenty of dynamite for us. I follow Gale's gaze, and see the ground where it's been patted down around a few of the platforms, and decide to trust his expertise in traps.

"The boy from 3. That's where they make machinery," I deduce.

Gale nods. "I'm more worried about what we'll do about their food. They'll have arranged the mines so that if one was set off, it wouldn't destroy their entire supply of food."

So he's saying that any solitary projectile missiles, like, say, and arrow, would be useless in this situation. Damn.

"We need to make most of the mines activate at once. Preferably without wasting too many of our arrows," he says.

I scan the arrangement of supplies again. I take in the plethora of food. If we destroyed this, they would be forced to hunt for themselves, and most of the years when a tribute from another district has won have been the ones when the careers had to hunt to feed themselves. They don't know how to be hungry like the rest of us do.

Then my eyes alight on a burlap sack of apples carelessly placed atop one of the crates.

"There," I say. "Three arrows."

Gale takes the first shot, he tears a hole near the top of the bag.

Next, I fire. My arrow pierces directly above his, and the hole widens. The apples are about to fall. Gale encourages them to tumble with the last arrow we've allowed ourselves. They spill to the ground, and it's obvious that we've activated enough of the bombs. And even if we didn't, the shrapnel from those that did explode will set off the others.

It's an impressive explosion. The blast carries Gale and I off our feet, and we're thrown to the ground yards from where we'd been standing. I think Gale hits a tree, judging by the loud snapping sound that's coming from a few feet behind me and to my left.


	8. Chapter 8

**GALE AND KATNISS**

**PART 8**

**Well, Yippee, here's part eight. Wahooey. Now, remember. Roses are Red, Violets are Blue, Y'ALL SHOULD REVIEW, because then I'd love you too! Sorry about that, it was awful. Now, continuing with the story: just hope I didn't kill any of the other tributes more than once, cause it gets hard to keep track. =). **

**I hereby accept that I am not a best-selling author who's sold millions of books in several different countries around the world. If I were, do you think I'd be writing cruddy fanfiction all the time? **

**I hope you like it. **

The impact has knocked the wind out of me. I struggle to regain my breath, checking my vitals. I don't think I've broken any bones, but I might've bruised a couple of ribs. My leg is definitely not faring well. I roll over, concerned about Gale.

His arm hangs from his torso at an odd angle. There's a tear along his jacket, but no blood. I take this as a good sign. At least he isn't completely decapitated.

Fighting vertigo, I manage to crawl over to the place where he lays. He's struggling to sit up, his face is dead white.

"Gale?"

His eyes open a crack. "Hey, Catnip," he greets me.

"Are you alright?" I ask, instantly regretting the stupidity of the question. He chuckles a little bit. I rephrase. "I mean, are you seriously hurt?"

"Not bad," he replies through gritted teeth. "I think my shoulder's broken, and maybe my collarbone too, but I'll be fine."

I don't have time to do a further medical assessment, not that I would do much good, because the careers are returning. I see their daunting silhouettes as they stride purposely toward the wreckage.

This is not a good place for him to be at this particular time.

Cato's beside himself with rage. He screams, yells. I can only think that he boy from 3's lucky that we took him out before Cato managed to get his hands on him. Having observed his temper, I wonder if he's maybe even slightly more insane than Gale.

I turn to look at him, to judge his next action through his facial expressions. He's got one eyebrow cocked, and there's an expression of amusement in his grey eyes. Once again, he's managed to completely ignore the gravity of the situation.

I turn my attention back to Cato and the careers. "Cato, just calm down, would you?" complains the girl from four. I've looked just in time to see him leap onto the girl, who makes a pathetic attempt at escape, and grip her head between his meaty hands. With two sharp jerks, she crumples to the ground beneath him, and we hear the cannon fire.

Compared with this coldblooded murder, the kills Gale and I have made look like soft hearted acts of pity.

If I were to leave the arena, I predict I would have a serious problem with loud noises.

Clove, at least, is smart enough to keep her distance from him. Eventually, they start to point to the sky, and I hear argumentative voices. I can't make out what they're saying, though.

"They think whoever caused the explosion died doing it," says Gale. "The sound of the canon would've been covered by the noise of the bombs being activated."

He's right. They settle at the edge of the lake to wait for sunset.

We decide we can't leave yet, either. Gale can barely stand, let alone walk. The cut on my thigh has reopened and is gushing blood. Neither of us are in any condition to move, nor will we be at any time in the near future.

I crawl over to Gale, who puts his good arm around my waist. I turn into him, and slip the cotton jacket off his shoulder so I can inspect the damage the impact did to his arm.

It's puffy and swollen, and it's beginning to bruise into a rainbow of colors. I think it's dislocated, on top of being completely shattered.

Funnily enough, Prim would be more useful now than me.

I try to gather courage, touching Gale's cheek and sweeping his hair out of his eyes before I speak. I try to sound calm, like my mother always does when she's tending to her patients.

"Can you feel your fingers?" I ask. I'm not sure I want to hear the answer.

Gale frowns, wiggles them a little. "Yeah, barely. Mostly just tingling."

I decide he's lucky he hasn't gone into shock. I choose to tell him this.

He raises an eyebrow. "Would you prefer it if I did?" He questions cynically.

That shuts me up.

After what seems like an eternity, the trumpets blare. There've been no new deaths today, I guess Gale and my escapades have been more than entertaining enough for the capitol audience.

The careers also notice that there've been no new faces in the sky. We watch fearfully as they light torches and prepare to hunt down whoever's responsible for destroying their supplies.

It occurs to me to late that the path they plan on taking heads straight toward us.

Gale must be thinking the same thing, because he's pressed a knife into my hand. "Cover my bad side," he whispers, touching my cheek once before he prepares for the careers to attack us.

They advance slowly, they don't know we're here yet. They will soon enough, though.

I decide not to waste the element of surprise. I leap out from our hiding place, knocking Clove to her knees. I barely have time to see Cato turn, Gale crashing through the trees behind me.

Clove whips out her knife, tries to roll me down below her. But even though she's bigger, I'm faster. I dodge out of the way, duck the knife again, and attempt to stab her. She's lucky this time, she manages to escape. She backs up, onto the rocky ledge that's smeared with blood from my leg.

I know Gale's behind me, fighting with Cato, keeping him off of me. I advance on my opponent, wishing I was better prepared for hand to hand combat. All I can do is dodge her daggers, and I'm faltering. My leg is slowing me down, I've lost to much blood.

In a last effort, I throw my knife at her. She twists to the side to avoid it, temporarily setting herself off balance, and I see my chance. I knock into her, sending her plummeting off the edge of the cliff. She hits the ground beside Gale and Cato. Canon.

I have no time to stop, to consider my actions. I run, knowing that I need to find Gale, that he's injured and nearly out of luck. I break free of the forest just in time to see him kick Cato in the face, he stumbles backward to me, and I dodge out of his way as he swings his sword. Canon.

Cato tackles him from behind, and he and Gale crash to the ground. I can only imagine the sickening pain in Gale's shoulder as Cato's weight presses him into the ground. He rolls, trying to free an arm from Cato's grasp so that he can use his knife.

Cato's too heavy though, and not injured. He rolls again, and they both scramble to get to their feet first. I see red. Someone's bleeding, but I can't tell who. Gale lunges for Cato, who turns at the last moment. There's a deep gash in his shoulder now, bleeding freely.

I watch, terrified, as they roll into the lake, turning the water a frightening crimson color. I can't see what happens, only the sprays of water as they splash in the shallows, and I can hear the sounds of pain coming from both of them. But then, I make out Cato. He's struggling to hold Gale's head under, he's trying to drown him.

Gale coughs, struggling to get his head above water, but his injured arm is completely useless and he's lost any advantage that skill might've given him while they were on land. If I don't do something…

I sprint forward, there're only a few feet between me and him now. I leap. The momentum sends me slamming into Cato, and he's forced to relinquish his hold on Gale.

I grab his shoulder, pulling him out of the water. "Gale!" I scream once, dragging him to his feet.

Coughing and spluttering, we run.

We don't make it far. My leg gives out, and Gale's hardly conscious. There's blood on his face, and there's a bruise above his eye, not to mention probable internal bleeding and the damaged arm. We drag ourselves to an overhanging rock beside the creek, where we'll be forced to spend the night.

The beloved game makers decide it's a fine time for rain.

And in the games, when it rains, it pours.

I wake up soaking wet. It's dark, and my leg hurts. I look down, wondering why I haven't bled to death yet, and see that it's because Gale put another bandage on it before he passed out. Still trying to protect me.

Gale.

I roll over, panicked. He's there beside me, and he's breathing, but I remember the way his shoulder snapped after the explosion, the way Cato almost drowned him in the lake.

Carefully, so as not to wake him, I take off his jacket so that I can examine his shoulder. It's turned a disgusting shade of brownish green, far beyond the typical purple of a normal bruise. It hangs at an angle that I know is wrong, I tentatively reach out a finger to touch it.

Gale jolts awake, jumping for his knife before he remembers where he is.

"Shh," I soothe him, forcing him to lie back down. "You'll make it worse."

He frowns at me, but complies as I give him a gram of anti-inflammatory drug from the first aid kit and fashion a sling out of the shredded remains of his jacket. I hope it doesn't get cold soon, we've used most of our clothes as medical supplies now. I've done just about everything I can, I just wish I could stop the rain, get us somewhere drier and warmer. I search the backpack for our sleeping bag, and we're lucky enough for it to be reasonably dry. Carefully, so as not to jostle his injured shoulder, I zip it up around Gale.

The fact that Cato's going to have to sit alone, tentless, throughout the storm makes it almost seem worthwhile.

"What are you smiling at, Catnip?" asks Gale.

"How cold and hungry Cato's going to be," I answer, managing to coax a weak chuckle out of him. Before I lie down beside him, I kiss him gently on the lips. He shudders lightly.

"Kissing is good medicine," he says happily.

I, on the other hand, do not think this is an appropriate time to be happy.

The next morning, our roles are reversed. I finally get to repay Gale for all of the care he gave me while I couldn't walk by taking care of him. And, as an added bonus, the rain's letting up.

I sit with my legs crossed and Gale's head in my arms. We talk, quietly, as I marvel at how we can find peace and happiness in one another, even under the worst of circumstances.

"What's your happiest memory?" Gale suddenly asks me, catching me off guard with the sudden question.

"When we bought Prim's goat," I say, surprised at how long ago it seems, even though it was only last summer. It was also when we'd brought down our largest game. After a successful day hunting, we'd been walking through the meadow, heading toward the hob to trade some of our haul, when we'd seen the deer.

Our arrows punctured its hide at the exact same time. It wasn't enormous, but it was by far the largest game we had ever managed to capture. One of the most distinct parts of the memory is the sparkle that lit Gale's eyes as he turned to me.

"Nice shot, Catnip," he had complimented.

We'd barely been able to get it over the electric fence, let alone bring it to the butcher. We planned on selling half of it, and keeping the rest to surprise our families with at dinner.

But when we finally reached the butchery, our plans changed. There was the goat man, trying to sell an old nanny goat to the butcher's wife, who was reluctant to make settle a deal for the injured animal.

It had been Gale who decided to buy the goat for Prim.

After an hour of bartering, we'd finally managed to reach an arrangement with the goat man trading half the price of the deer for the old goat.

Gale had insisted on carrying it home for me. I think he was just as eager to see little Prim's face as I was. We'd even splurged, and bought a pink ribbon to tie around its neck.

When we'd presented Prim with her gift, she'd been ecstatic. It was the first time since our father died that I saw her experience true happiness.

I smile at the gleeful memory. "I couldn't have done it without you, Gale," I say truthfully.

He smiles contentedly, and we sit quietly for a few minutes, simply enjoying one another's company.

"Katniss?"

"Yeah," I answer.

"I think I love you."

I'm shocked into silence. I sit, wondrous, for a moment, as I savor the words, contemplating whether I feel the same way. Whether I can let myself admit that I feel the same way.

Fifteen minutes later, I touch Gale's lips.

"I think I love you, too," I state with satisfaction. I like the way the words feel in my mouth.

He shifts so that we're facing, and brings my face to his. Our mouths meet, and fireworks explode behind my eyes. How can something so perfect happen in such a hell of a place?

He bites my lower lip, deepening the kiss as I struggle to remember to be careful with his arm. Gale feels even better inside my mouth than those words did.

Of course, our perfect moment is interrupted when I hear a muffled thud behind me, and turn around to see a large silver parachute. I scramble to my feet to retrieve it, eagerly unwrapping the gift like Prim or Rory on Christmas morning.

Inside is a container filled with the lamb stew I found so delicious in the capitol, a bottle of medication, and a large sheet of plastic.

"Haymitch finally sent us something!" I tell Gale joyously.

I use the plastic to create a little bit of shelter to protect us from the onslaught of rain, and carefully pry open the lamb stew, contemplating the timing of Haymitch's gift.

I wonder if it could mean something...

"He's definitely got excellent timing," grumbles Gale irritably, but I only smile. We've got food, and something to fix Gale's arm with.

We gorge ourselves on the stew, hardly being able to go slow enough to keep from getting sick. The food tastes ten times better here than it did in the capitol.

We sit back cheerfully when we've finished, and I'm shocked at how pleasant the afternoon was. More than pleasant. And I'm sure the game makers won't allow us much longer to enjoy ourselves…unless Gale and I manage to be entertaining enough just sitting here in the rain.

I'm about to get Gale another anti-inflammatory from the first aid kit, but then I remember the medication that Haymitch sent us. I find the little orange bottle still in the parachute, I pull it out to investigate.

"BONE MEND" says the label in big, authorative black letters. I glance at Gale, who's grimacing in pain. I turn around to face him, and he immediately resumes the pleasant expression, but I can tell now that it's forced.

"I have something for you," I say, handing him a dose of the skeletal repair medication. He takes it, and swallows it whole after giving it a cursory once over.

I wake up to the sound of leaves rustling by my ear. I crack one eye open to see Gale preparing two more plates of the stew, I laugh because he's struggling to only use his uninjured arm.

He turns around, a bemused look in his eyes, saying, "Good morning, sunshine."

I raise an eyebrow. "I take it the meds worked?"

He drops the teasing expression. "Yeah, if tingling is better than hurting."

I wince, and crawl over to his side. I take the stew from him, finish serving it, and make him sit down before he can eat it.

Stealing myself for the worst, I carefully unwind the sling that holds his right arm in place.

What I see is shocking. I'd expected the swelling to go down, but if anything it's gotten worse overnight, and the bruising is now a mixture of greens and blacks. Hesitantly, I reach out to touch it.

"Tell me where it hurts," I murmur.

I stroke the bruises, Gale winces and shudders beneath my touch, although he manages not to cry out. I try to remember what my mother did when she treated children with twisted ankles or broken arms.

And then an idea occurs to me. "Gale, don't move. I'll be right back," I say, moving my hair so that he's forced to look at me.

I run outside, still carrying the shirt that was his sling, and scramble to the top of the rock we're sheltered under. After looking around for a few moments, I find what I've been looking for. I dunk the shirt in the puddle of icy rainwater, soaking it in the cool liquid.

I climb down, and place it on Gale's shoulder. It's a poor replacement for the ice my mother uses, but it's still better than nothing.

Gale frowns, I notice he's been thoughtfully quiet for a while now.

"You know, Catnip, there are a couple of lines that I've been thinking about," he says slowly. His tone is serious, I turn so that our eyes meet.

"Yeah?" I ask. "What are they?"

"And care for each other in sickness and in health," he says, looking down. I'm surprised to see a slight blush color his tan cheeks.

I blush, too, as I recognize the phrase. It's a part of the marriage vows we use in District 12. "What about them?"

"They just seemed relevant to the situation is all," he mumbles.

Carefully, gently, so as not to bump his arm, I lean over and kiss him. Slowly at first, and then more urgently. He reaches his good arm up to my head and winds his fingers into my hair, kissing me back just as enthusiastically. I moan, enjoying the woodsy taste of his lips, and how they feel against mine. I'm breathless.

Pulling away, I whisper, "I like those words, too."

As I gaze into the depths of his eyes, I can't help but imagine the way things could possibly have happened for us if we hadn't been pulled into this monster that's called the games. With all of my heart, I wish that those dreams would have had the chance to come true.

But, of course, like everything in my life, the capitol has torn it away from me.

I think about said capitol, and wonder how they're reacting to Gale and I. Do they enjoy watching the two 'star-crossed lovers' savoring their last moments together before they're brutally massacred? Are they not entertained?

Surely we're well sponsored; the state of the art remedial bone medication that Haymitch sent us must have cost a fortune. It was brewed in capitol labs, with insurmountable budgeting. The science behind those little blue pills is incomprehensible when the most impressive medication you've seen is what your mother manages to concoct from scratch.

I watch the sky again. The game makers have even scattered a few bright lights throughout the inky sky in attempt to mimic the stars; they are nothing if not attentive to detail. I watch as the faces of the few remaining tributes flash across the sky. There will be fewer and fewer deaths now, we're nearing the time when the capitol will conduct interviews upon our family members. I think of little Prim, sitting quietly in a hard chair with her hands folded in her lap as she speaks clearly into the camera. Of how she would do her best to appear strong, even though you can see her entire body quaking in fear.

Momentarily, I wish I were coming home from the games. What I wouldn't give just to go back to District 12 one more time, to see the faces of all the people I left behind.

However, Gale is that person that I couldn't let go of. I've already decided that a world not containing him would be a waste of a planet. And I know that he would care for my mother and Prim as though they were his own, that if he came home, I wouldn't have to worry about their safety.

I curl up in his arms to sleep, trying to keep warm as I listen to the steady pitter patter of rain above our heads. I wonder how much time we've got left in the arena.


	9. Chapter 9

**GALE AND KATNISS**

**PART 9**

**Wow, part 9! AND, I'm doing longer chapters now, too! I hope you like that fact enough to want to review. =) reviews ARE pleasing to me. **

**Here it is. And it's almost over. **

**Any ideas for a Catching Fire plotline? I'm toying with a couple of ideas about how I want it to go right now, but I need some inspiration. **

**Disclaimer: I can't think of a good disclaimer, so I'm just going to write disclaimer. Cute, huh?**

**Here ya go. **

I awake to an overwhelming heat. I'm soaked through with sweat, and my face is flushed. Turning slightly, I realize that it must be Gale, who's body I'm enveloped in. The break in his shoulder must have caused the fever…

The Hunger Games are incredibly ironic. It's messing with my mind, the way the game makers must continually point out the places where I'm flawed. Whereas Prim, the already adept healer, might be able to do Gale some good in these circumstances, I'm a complete disappointment. Every action I take trying to assist him must be thoroughly thought out, I'm terrified that I'll do more good than bad.

I weigh my alternatives, eventually deciding to place a wet cloth on his forehead in an attempt to break the fever, and to give him more of the medication we've been sent when he wakes up.

I douse a strip of torn fabric in the collected rain water, wringing it out a few times before gingerly placing it on his forehead. Gale's cheeks are pink and his lips slightly chapped, his hair disheveled and messy. I don't know what I can do, all I know is that without him in it my world would completely go to pieces.

I sit in our little shelter with him until the sun rises, but I'm no good at waiting. I become restless, fidgeting in the small, cramped space. My mind wanders and I struggle to focus my thoughts as I alternate between changing Gale's cloths and playing with his hair.

Somewhere in the middle of all the waiting, I begin to formulate a plan. It's my responsibility to ensure Gale's success in these games; it's about time I start protecting him and his future. I run through the living tributes in my mind, I think of Cato, the boy from 11, Thresh, and the girl from 5 with the bright red hair. That's only three, I realize. The Games could be over in a week, but all the same, it's about time I started doing something to improve the chances of Gale being crowned victor.

It's easy for me to assess that Cato will be the biggest threat, as he's seen fought with Gale before and will be prepared for any form of attack, followed by Thresh for his size…but there's still something that bothers me about the girl. She can't have lasted this long by chance. So, I choose to eliminate Cato first, then if I survive, I'll do my best to kill Thresh as well, leaving Gale the best possible chances of victory I can.

I'll have to track Cato so I can snipe him from afar, I wouldn't stand a chance fighting against someone his size in hand to hand combat. I realize that he could be anywhere now, without the protection of the other careers there would be no reason for him to remain by the lake. It would have been far simpler to move into the woods for shelter…and to hunt.

Gale stirs beside me, interrupting my musings. I hurriedly try to arrange my features into an expression that won't give away my intentions to leave as soon as he's reasonably healed.

I smile indulgently to him, handing him the little plastic capsule of medicine and the water canteen.

"Morning," I greet him.

"Hey, Catnip," he says, his voice just a little uneven and raspy.

I watch as he swallows the pill, then roll him to the side so that I can look at his arm. I'm crouched over his torso, straddling his stomach, and I hold my breath as I steal myself to look at the injury.

The suspense is almost painful as I unwrap the sling, but I'm rewarded with a slight improvement when I finally do see the damage. It seems as though the swelling has gone down slightly, and the bruising has returned to a much more manageable purple and yellow shade. Whatever's in that medicine they sent us from the capitol, it works wonders.

"Better?" he asks.

"Yeah," I say. "You should be able to hunt again in a few days." I hope what I've said is true, the careers won't let us hide from them forever. We eat what's left of the lamb stew Haymitch sent, as well as a bit of the goose. Our food supply's running low, we won't last another day without me going out to hunt.

And the longer we wait, the harder it will be.

It's uncanny being in the woods without Gale by my side. I'd promised him I'd stay within a three mile radius in case something were to happen, but I still can't shake the feeling that I'm missing a part of myself. It's like I've lost my sense of hearing or gone blind in one eye.

While I'm not nearly as effective a hunter without him by my side, I do manage to bag enough game to feed us for a few days.

As I'm walking back to our makeshift shelter, I hear the subtle crunching of leaves somewhere behind me. It's a person, I can tell by the rhythm of the sound, but whoever it is, even though they're not silent like Gale and I, has been taught to move quietly through the woods.

Slowly, I turn around, bow strung and loaded. I don't see anyone, but I'm afraid to keep walking. I pivot a few times, trying not to leave my back unguarded. This is exactly where Gale and I would protect one another, and he's not here with me now.

Suddenly, a twig snaps somewhere to my right, and I twirl around, barely in time to see a curtain of dark red hair whip behind a tree. I turn, quietly, watching. It occurs to me that the fox faced girl from 5 isn't following me, she's hunting someone else. She has no idea I'm here.

I decide to watch and wait. Foxface is quick, she moves in a jumpy, paranoid way that tells me there's another tribute somewhere nearby. When I notice that she's glanced up at the treetops three times now, I know who it is.

It's the small, birdlike girl from 11. Her name is Rue. The girl who looked so much like Prim…

Foxface seems to have identified her position and is hesitantly climbing the tree, neither of the other girls are trying to keep quiet now. I hear scrambling and the snapping of branches, but then, there's an abrupt silence.

And then the loudest snap of all.

A scream, then the little dark girl falls from the tree. Jumping down quick after her is the redhead. I wonder what's going on….

I choose to approach, I'm armed and I don't think Rue has any weapons and Foxface has only got her short knife.

Little Rue lies there, her body in a crumpled heap on the ground. Her face is distorted with pain, and she's frantically trying to speak.

Angry and oddly protective, I let my arrow fly and it lodges deep in Foxface's chest, going all the way through, back to front. The blood that seeps from the wound is the same dark color as her hair, her body convulses once and she falls. There's a cannon, hers was a quick death and I'm thankful for that.

I turn to Rue, crouching beside her and cupping her tiny face in the palm of my hand.

"Rue? Rue?" I repeat her name, struggling to console her.

She does not want to be comforted. She's frantically waving her hand, trying to choke out words that I can't understand. Looking deep into her wide, fearful brown yes, I can only guess what she's trying to tell me.

But then I hear the buzzing sound.

I recognize the ominous hum immediately, pulling my shirt above my face as I spot the first tracker jacker. When Gale and I have long since learned to leave their nests be if we come across them in the woods. A sting from one of these mutated wasps means delirium, pain, and probably death. I take off running, knowing that if I can only submerge myself in water I'll be safe. It's a mad dash through the forest, I'm not trying to hide my position any longer. My survival instincts have completely taken over as I flee.

But I can't shake the image of poor little Rue, suffering, unable to move and surrounded by the killer wasps. And how she was so much like Prim…

Against my better judgment, I turn back and sprint to her side. I can't let her die the slow and painful death that the tracker jackers bring, I've got to end it quickly for her. I want it to be one of my arrows, not one of the capitol's poisons, that ends her life.

It's the honorable thing to do. I hope the game makers are watching, I want them to know that even if I'm inevitably a contestant in their sadistic little games, I still have a heart. I am still capable of an act of kindness toward another human being.

I fight to keep tears at bay as I let my arrow loose and it flies toward her. Of course I don't miss. It lodges solidly in her side, and it's a clean wound. She'll die quickly. Just before her cannon fires, she mouths one thing at me.

I think it's my name.

Then, the inevitable swarm of muttation wasps clouds around me, stinging me once in the neck and twice through my shirt. These are not the docile honey bees that die after one sting, these horrifying creatures continue to attack viciously over and over again, until their victim is completely annihilated.

Not many have lived to describe the odd sensation that comes after the initial pain of a tracker jacker sting, for obvious reasons.

First, there's a tingling that travels from my fingertips up my arms, eventually engulfing my body like an inescapable flame. Next, my head spins and it looks as though the world's tipping. I lose my grip on reality, struggling to remain conscious as the world around me takes on a hazy, glimmering effect. I look to my feet, and see little Rue's flesh bubbling and oozing with some sort of orange puss. Nearby, the dead body of Foxface is consumed in the yellow and black bodies, moving in and out of focus as her defeated form sizzles and convulses, spewing out torrents of purple liquid.

The world around me has become a swirling vortex, trees bend out of shape and nothing's the right color, it's like the most severe form of vertigo possible. I feel the weight of my tongue as it swells in my mouth in an allergic reaction, and my entire body itches painfully.

I stagger to a nearby tree, reaching out to clutch to the trunk for support, but I miss, toppling to the ground where I land on my face, cutting my knee on the cruel edge of a jagged rock. The momentary pain is enough to remind me of my fate, I force myself to stand and struggle to think.

Water. That's where I was going earlier, to find water where the venomous wasps couldn't harm me. I flee the scene of little Rue's death, barely avoiding running off cliffs and smacking into a few trees. I pinch my wrists, hoping that the pain will keep my mind clear.

I've lost all sense of direction, all I can do is run blindly in what I hope is the opposite direction of the tracker jacker nest. There's nothing I could do to defend myself if one of the careers were to find me now…

Although I've got no clue how long I've been running for in actuality, it feels as though I've been fleeing for an eternity before I finally see the crystal waters of the lake before me. I plunge in, the cool water soothing the stings and warding off any more of the wasps that were in pursuit of me. Those things are ruthless.

I hold my breath, sinking lower and lower into the calm waters. Whoever thought that water would be the savior of the girl on fire?

I stay under for as long as I can bear, regaining mental clarity the longer I'm under. When oxygen deprivation finally threatens to overcome me, I ascend upward, propelling myself toward the shining light that I know is the sun.

As I breach the surface of the calm waters, I become aware of another presence somewhere nearby. I'm not alone, and I can't defend myself.

I turn in a circle, silently treading water as I survey my surroundings. Of course, I've run into the worst possible person.

Cato has abandoned a rag and the sword he was polishing on the sandy beach, his green eyes searching the horizon. He knows I'm here somewhere. He runs a hand through his curly brown hair, and I know he's ready to kill. That he wouldn't think twice about taking my life, and that he's expected to win these games since the very beginning.

Slowly, I try to sink beneath the surface before he sees me, but a few weak ripples reach the shore and alert him to my location. In an instant, he sees me. We make eye contact as he draws a cruel looking scimitar from his belt, grinning wickedly.

"Katniss," he says to himself, I read his lips as they shape my name. "The girl on fire."

And suddenly I get it. He hates me. Gale and I have stolen his games from him, destroyed his victory and his reputation as the best. That's why he's going to make my death as slow, torturous, and painful as possible.

I gulp, wishing I hadn't abandoned my bow somewhere behind me in the forest as Cato advances toward my place deep in the lake, the water splashing around his knees.

I realize that I've got one thing to be thankful for, and that's the advantage of my position. If I can maintain the energy to stay afloat, that means he'll have to swim to reach me, which he can't do holding that scimitar.

Of course, I'm sure he's not averted to snapping my neck with his bare hands.

He strides purposefully forward, tossing the silver weapon behind him onto the beach as he begins to swim toward me. He advances with strong, powerful strokes as I struggle to move backward, staying out of his reach. He's stronger than me, and the neurotoxins of the tracker jackers haven't disabled his reflexes.

At last, he catches me. His forearm ripples with muscle as he grips my cheeks, panting as he draws the energy to deliver my final blow. His fowl smelling breath blows in my face, making me gag. I've accepted my fate, there's no chance for me now.

Gathering the last of my diminishing strength, I choke on the lakewater, spitting in his face.

I can see the vein pounding in his temple as his face reddens with fury, and he tightens his grip around my neck.

I can't breathe, the pressure on my neck is transferring to my chest and I've lost sensation in my arms and legs. Dark purple spots mar my vision, and writhe in his grip. Just as I've acknowledged the inescapability of my death, I hear the whistle of an arrow beside my ear, and see the straight, wooden shaft sticking straight from Cato's back.

While he's far from dead, he allows me to break free from his grip. The water churns, a bloody red color, as he flees the lake, seeking solid ground.

I allow my body to relax, allowing the dark water to take me where it will. The murky lake consumes me, dragging me under as I sink, barely conscious.

But then, I feel something hard and dependable, dragging me to the surface. The water is more shallow now, my feet drag along the seafloor while my head is still above the surface. Someone's fingers grip my shirt, pulling me out of the water. I feel the rough, wet sand, course against my skin, and then the place where it's suddenly dry. The arm leaves me, and the person that it belonged to bends over my forehead and kisses me once, quickly.

I open my eyes, gagging as the water I inhaled comes back up my throat.

When I can finally breathe again, I open my eyes. I catch a hint of shiny black hair, and know that Gale was my rescuer. His arm is held secure in a white sling, and his skin glistens with the water from the lake. He's obtained a sword somehow, he holds it loosely at his side as he moves quietly side to side in a semicircular motion.

Silhouetted against the horizon, finishing the second half of the circle, is Cato. He's broken the shaft of the arrow, and blood runs down his chest from the hole in his shoulder. He snarls like a feral animal, his teeth glinting in the evening sunlight.

I blink, trying to focus. I can't let Gale face Cato…it was my job to finish him off first. And now, once again, Gale is risking his life to save me. The opposite of what I wanted, but I realize that's the way it's always been for us. One protecting the other.

Finally, Cato charges, bringing the heavy sword up with both hands to bring it crashing down on Gale's skull, but he's not fast enough. Gale spins to the side at the last second, gripping his own weapon in his left, uninjured hand.

Cato turns, thrusting the sword toward Gale, who barely manages to block it in time. The swords slide upward as both try to push the other backward, until Cato steps into Gale, pressuring his injured shoulder. Gale leaps aside, slightly off balance. The minute moment of imperfection leaves Cato an opening, his weapon flashes in the sunlight, leaving a streak of red that travels from Gale's temple to his jaw.

Gale stumbles backward, touching a hand to his cheek. It comes back red with blood. This battle is not going well. Finally, though, he finds strength and runs forward, locking blades with Cato once again. He compensates for his shoulder by offsetting his weight slightly, forcing Cato to follow. Their blades meet, but Gale turns quickly, catching his opponent off guard as he moves in, searching for an opening as Cato desperately tries to block him.

Finally, Gale's sword cuts into Cato's neck, severing his head slightly. It's not a clean cut, though, the separation of flesh stops at the cream color of Cato's bone. Tendons are visible, Gale obviously cut through a major artery. Gallons of crimson liquid are pumped from his body as his heart continues to thud valiantly. Gale swings again, this time the other boy's head flies from his shoulders. At last, the canon fires.

I gag again, this time from disgust rather than the water coating my lungs.

Gale tosses his sword to the ground, repulsed by his actions. I watch, dazed, as he screams profanities into the sky, cursing the capitol and the world and Cato and himself. It seems like hours that he yells at the clouds before he finally exhausts himself and sits at the edge of the lake.

Carefully, I crawl to his side and take his hand. He's covered in blood, I splash water on his face and wipe away the red with the hem of my shirt. We stand, walk to Cato's body. We each take an arm, and drag him across the sand and into the water. It's the best burial we can do.

I turn to Gale, wanting to comfort him.

"Don't touch me, Katniss," he says cruelly.

I sit back, affronted.

"I'm a monster. I don't deserve you." His face is hard, he's taken on that stubborn attitude that I know is nearly impossible to bargain with.

"It's the games, Gale," I remind him, even though a small part of me agrees with his words. I've just witnessed him slice a boy's head off. "We're all killers." It's true. I've cold bloodedly murdered my fair share of children in the last month.

Gale frowns at me, and I barely glimpse something wet and clear at the corner of his eye.

I can hardly recognize the tear on his face, it's so…out of character for him. Gale never cries. Not when his father died. Not when we were forced into the Games. Not when his shoulder was grotesquely twisted beyond hope of repair.

But now…

Tenderly, I reach out and wipe the tear from his face.

"He wouldn't have thought twice about it," I tell Gale. "But you're different. You know remorse."

I gently stroke his raven hair, running my fingers through its silky perfection. I want them to convey peace…

If only I had some peace to give.

Eventually, we relax onto the coarse sand, lying in each other's arms. I rest my head on Gale's muscled chest, letting myself rise and fall rhythmically with his breath.

When the sky has darkened and the stars have appeared, trumpets blare. We look into the sky, and see the three dead faces eclipse the dark clouds. I don't consider their families, their hopes and dreams. We all know they had them, but they're gone now, and there's nothing we can do but forget them.

Foxface. Rue. Cato.

Gone today, and their lives are our responsibility. But what truly matters are our lives. These are the Hunger Games, and the law is survival of the fittest, as much as it makes me want to gag.

Gale and I come to the same conclusion concurrently. We both know that there's one more person between us and home.

"Thresh."


	10. Chapter 10

**GALE AND KATNISS**

**PART 10**

**Wow, we're into the double digits, now. How exciting. =). Well, it's almost over, and reviews are important. I like to hear opinions. I'm thinking maybe three more chapters? It all depends on how I divide what I have written. **

**Wow, are my disclaimers getting awful as the story gets longer. The reservoir is definitely drying up. But, the point is that you need to remember that I'm not a copyright infringer. That's why it's on a fanfiction website in the first place. **

**Yippee!**

We both know now that the games are officially coming to a close. Whether we're ready or not, we'll have to face him tomorrow, and that last battle will decide both of our fates. There's nothing we can do but prepare ourselves as best we can.

Eat. Sleep. Rest.

As I lie on the beach with my head on Gale's chest, I realize that tonight is very likely the last night of my existence. I know what choice I've made, and it's time that my decision comes to fruition. If it comes down to the matter of life or death for Gale, I'm more than prepared to risk my life for him; and I will, whether he likes it or not. These are his games; I'd decided that long ago.

I tilt my chin, my eyes drinking in his face. If I'm going to die tomorrow, I'm going to absorb as much of him as I possibly can. My last peaceful memory will be of him, and that's how I've always wanted it to be. How I'd known it would end.

I state the words loudly, clearly, and simply.

"I love you, Gale."

I know I've uttered them before, but never have I said it first. Never have I said them with such complete faith.

"I love you, Catnip," he says, holding my face between his hands and lifting my mouth to his, for one last passionate kiss…

I awake to the feeling of the lake's soft water lapping up against my toes, and I enjoy the waves of bliss that wash over me as I feel the contours of Gale's body above mine.

The pleasure is short lived, as are most things in the arena. Reluctantly, I force myself to focus on the reality that plagues me. I sit up, shaking the cream sand out of my hair and organizing my weapons.

Cato had managed to acquire an impressive arsenal of weaponry, Gale and I armed ourselves well with what we managed to loot from his camp.

I loop a belt of knives around my waist, string my bow, clipping a long, almost elegant sword at my hip. No doubt Thresh will be armed

Gale touches me lightly from behind, I hadn't realized he had awoken, or heard him approach. He moves so silently…

He's holding my quiver, I turn to face him and he fastens it around my shoulder.

"This is it," he murmurs.

"The last fight," I conclude. I don't allow myself to consider the possibilities we could've had back in 12, or the family we might've had. I need to direct all of my energies toward Gale's survival now, in these last moments of my life that is what really matters.

We walk together, the sunrise painting the sky into a beautiful panoramic vision of vibrant hues behind us. The golden fields where Thresh has hidden sway in a slight breeze, the landscape is almost beautiful.

I won't be appreciating it for long.

Gale pauses at the place where the sandy ground begins to grow into the long, yellow grasses of the prairie. Gazing into his silver eyes, I know there's something on his mind.

He reaches over, brushing my bangs out of my eyes with those strong, deft fingers that I've come to know so well. "You know I'm ready to die for you, right Katniss?"

I frown. "We'll see," I mutter, knowing that my plans are completely at odds with his, but that I'll only hurt his chances arguing now. We're both far too stubborn.

Somehow, something inside of me knows that my fate will be decided as I take this next step…

I look into Gale's eyes, and I'm shocked at what I find. His striking grey eyes are wet with what I suspect are tears, and I realize that he's never really cried before. Ever.

I reach down and grip his hand firmly in mine, and we continue the journey toward inevitable destiny together, hand in hand.

We've trekked across the golden field for about an hour now, the sun is rising high behind our backs. Slightly to the left is a lone tree, short and twisted from the false weather. It's growing atop a granite boulder, its roots stretching down around the rock, struggling to find the soil at its feet.

Judging by the haphazardly concealed remains of a fire pit and the markings on the soft earth beneath our feet, I know this is where Thresh has been living.

Keeping my grip on Gale's hand, I turn so that my back is pressed against his, and we can see from either direction. The possibility that we've just walked into an ambush is extraordinarily high. Slowly, I draw a knife from my belt, and I feel the muscles shift in Gale's back as he pulls Cato's sword from it's sheath.

We rotate slowly, our eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of our adversary. I hate this terrain, it's nothing like the woods that I'm accustomed to. It's to open, and I feel exposed on the great, flat mesa. We're out of our element.

I shake with nerves, trying to steady my sweat-slick knife hand.

A branch breaks. My ears perk toward the sound, and I'm painfully aware that these may well be the last seconds of my life. My breathing accelerates, and I crouch low, readying myself to either attack or defend.

And then there's Thresh, his huge arm rippling with muscle as he grasps his spear tight. He's left handed, I realize with a pang of remorse. Even that little detail is enough to forcefully remind me of the fact that this boy is a human being.

I survey him further, he appears to be more well fed than when he entered the arena weeks ago. I wonder if district 11 truly is that atrocious, that even in the district that's largely responsible for agricultural production the citizens starve.

He approaches, I can see his eyes now. They're a strange golden color, with unexpected flecks of green. Those eyes are caring, they harbor true emotion behind the hard outside layer that I'm sure encases us all. Whatever we may be on the inside, we're still all killers. Murderers.

I regret having to kill him, but I know that my choice is between him and my hunting partner, my best friend…and my lover. And I know that I made that decision a long time ago.

He advances on us, I squeeze Gale's hand for reassurance and he squeezes back as we stride confidently toward Thresh, weapons poised and ready.

Thresh sees our advance, and breaks into a run, clutching the wooden shaft of his spear above his head, aiming to lodge it into my skull. I'm frozen, nothing better than a shocked animal as this giant of a boy sprints toward me, his footsteps resounding like thunderclaps on the prairie soil.

But then, at the last second, Gale turns in place, yanking me aside. Thresh sails past me, skidding to a stop a few feet behind us. Somehow, there's a huge, deep gash in his left bicep, and his blood streams freely from the open wound. Gale must have sliced into him as he ran past…

Now we circle each other, Thresh completing an outer circle, Gale and I, hands entwined, rotating slowly in the center. He looks for an opening, a place where our defenses are down. Even from this distance, I can see the sweat beading on his forehead.

Again, he charges, this time aiming for Gale. We sidestep, and somehow I lose my grip on Gale's hand. Now, he's sparring with Thresh, who's spear is broken in two. He uses one half in each hand, fighting as if they're daggers. Gale has the upper hand, and Thresh knows it.

I can see the thought process playing through his mind, the way he evaluates our relationship through our actions. And he gambles, guessing on what I know is true.

He disengages himself from Gale momentarily, sending the arrow end of his spear flying toward me. He guessed correctly.

As if on cue, Gale turns away from him and leaps toward me, although I know that there's nothing he can do to stop the spear entering my flesh.

And it does. It lodges into my shoulder, and it hurts, although not as badly as the cut on my leg had. I'm dizzy from the pain, but somehow I retain my focus.

Gathering my willpower, I pull the splintery wood from my body, trying to ignore the sickening squelch that accompanies the motion. I toss the spear to the ground, and approach Thresh.

Gale recovers from the shock that is evident in his wide, pale eyes, and grabs Thresh's arms, pinning them behind his back. I hold my knife loosely, gingerly.

Seeing those strange, golden eyes, so filled with life and terror and sorrow and fear, it makes me reminisce on the awful, repulsive things that I've done to get to this point. Thresh – Thresh had a family…friends. I realize that I never even knew him as a person…only an opponent. And suddenly, the full force of my hate for the capitol comes crashing down on me.

They've made me into someone I never wanted to be, they've turned me into a monster. They've forced my hand, several times, causing me to kill other humans. I'm a disgusting excuse for a person. I'm not sure if the word 'person' can even accurately define me anymore.

"I am so sorry," I whisper, and even though my words are hardly audible, I know that thousands of speakers have picked up on them and are projecting them throughout all of Panem. "I didn't want you to die."

Hot, salty tears run down my nose, staining the large boy's shirt as I point the knife at his throat. His rare golden-green eyes stare deep into mine, searching for some sort of mercy, for a flaw in my resolve.

"I don't want you to die. But the capitol made you my enemy." I'm sobbing now, the tears fall in earnest, blurring my vision. I rack my mind for some way I could make Thresh's death meaningful, and not just yet another statistic of the games. I want everyone in Panem to know that I am above the influences of the capitol. That I refuse to become a brutal monster in order to entertain them.

Suddenly I know.

I sing. I haven't sung since my father died. Without him in the house, it was as though there was no longer any reason for music in my life. It wasn't the same without him.

As I gain confidence, the tears halt. I hear Gale's voice harmonizing with mine, as he joins me in singing the funeral song from 12. It's a slow, melancholy melody, and the words are interchangeable.

When we finish, the birds flying across the sky and perched in the tree beside us carry on with the tune.

My hand no longer trembles, and I press the silver blade of the knife into Thresh's throat, pressing into his flesh. I make it fast, cutting his throat with a quick incision that I hope won't be more painful than necessary. Then there's more blood, darkening both of our jackets and streaking my fingers with gory colors.

We stand slowly, letting Thresh slide off of our laps and onto the ground. Gale presses the three middle fingers of his right hands against his lips, the way our district did for us when we were sent into the games. I quickly follow suit, paying a last respect to the dying boy at my feet.

"This is some god-awful entertainment, if you ask me," he says.

The cannon fires, it's loud and cruel and harsh, disrupting the peaceful moment.

I collapse, unable to stem the violent sobs and salty tears that make the extent of my grief evident. I've become devoid of any emotion or feeling, other than a searing pain that eats at me from the inside out.

I'm vaguely aware that Gale has picked me up from the hard, dry ground where I lay, and is carrying me back across the mesa, back to the crystal lake. We move slowly, the sky darkening above our heads. Trumpets blare, loud and ostentatious. They don't want us to miss this moment. Thresh's face highlights the sky over our heads, his photographically illustrated image self-assured and peaceful.

As if I needed to be reminded of my actions.


	11. Chapter 11

**GALE AND KATNISS**

**PART 11**

**Hmm, another long one. I'd thought this one would be shorter, but hey. I'm not complaining. Feel free to review, because it is just so encouraging to an aspiring writer such as myself (and yaddayaddayadda). So. I hope you like it, because the first book in my fanfiction trilogy is drawing to a close (this still isn't the last chapter, though). AND thank you so, so, so (so X a rather large number), much to those of you who reviewed. And I'm sorry about my lazy updating regime.  
**

**Disclaimer: Seriously? No. I am not an acclaimed author.**

**Oh boy, now here's the good stuff. **

Gale sets me down on the beach, those extricate hands of his caressing my face, combing through my hair, and tugging at my shirt.

At first, I try to evade him, uncomfortable with where this is leading, but then I remember the wound, and with the memory comes a new feeling; a gently pulsing pain. It needs to be cleaned, and so I just relax, enjoying having someone else take care of me for a change.

As Gale works over me, I watch his face carefully, trying to analyze his actions. Dark, almost wavy hair falls forward into his smoky eyes. He frowns, concentrating. I see small lines forming in his brow that weren't there before, a result of the games. He favors the arm that was injured slightly, using it less than he had before. I hate how the capitol's marked him. Gazing even deeper into those eyes of his, I know that his utter remorse is genuine.

Eventually, I must've drifted off to sleep, because when I awake the sun is beating down on my body, and the sand beneath me is pleasantly warm. Opening my eyes, I see Gale off in the distance, walking toward me. He's got two rabbits secured to his belt and one of the bows slung casually over his shoulder, just like things used to be back at home.

Breakfast.

I try to sit up, my stomach growling angrily, but am forced back down again with an awful headache. I wonder if this is how Haymitch feels every morning…

I try again, moving much more slowly and cautiously this time. My head spins, and it takes me a moment to focus. I squint, the sun shines brightly into my unaccustomed eyes. I've never been hung over, but if the throbbing, beating feeling that reverberates throughout my skull is any comparison, I think I'll avoid finding out.

As Gale lights a fire to prepare our meal, I'm about to warn him about the smoke, until I recall the events of the previous day.

Gale and I are the final two tributes.

Which means…

I reach for my knife, but I find it's been removed. So has the one that I had stowed in my boot for an emergency. Searching for my bow, it occurs to me that it's been hidden as well. So much for my suicide attempts. I knew my plans weren't going to go over well with Gale, so this is only to be expected. Really, it's just a minor setback…I'll find a way eventually.

"Where are my weapons?" I call out inquisitively. Gale shrugs, gesturing to the extra knives in his belt and the bow that's been hidden in the distance. I expect the sword I took from Cato is also hidden nearby.

"I didn't want you to get any ideas while I was gone," he explains simply. I frown, knowing that this is going to be difficult.

"What if something attacked me while you were gone?" I ask, knowing that Gale would never have left me truly defenseless.

He smiles crookedly, gesturing to the edge of the forest which borders our shore of the lake. "I was only ever a few feet away, I could see you the entire time I was hunting."

At first, I'm irritated. I don't require constant babysitting, I can take care of myself. I have been for years. However, I can't help but be reassured that he was nearby. I'm becoming oddly dependent on his unbroken presence.

Giving up all pretenses of diplomacy before breakfast, I make my way slowly to our fire and sit down, enjoying the smell of the sizzling fat as the rabbits roast. I hadn't realized how hungry I was.

Gale sits down beside me, touching my cheek with his thumb, and my heart races at the intense look in his eye. I lean toward him, our foreheads touch now.

Just when I think he's going to kiss me again, he abruptly pulls away, swearing profusely. "Damn it, Katniss," He says, his expression angry and…regretful. "If it weren't for the capitol, think of the things we could've had."

I shake my head stubbornly, I don't want to remind myself of everything that I'll never have now, thanks to the games. But Gale's just as stubborn as I am, and he's going to force me to acknowledge it.

"Prim, Rory, Vick, Posy, we'd still be with them every day, and they'd have fresh meat whenever they wanted it," he begins, his voice angry. "And we could have had a future. What if we had a family, Katniss, what if we were allowed possibilities? Then what would've happened?" he demands, his voice persuasive.

I sigh, knowing from years of experience that this is not a battle that I can win. I nod my head. "We could've had it all," I say, hating the truth of my own words.

And then he does do it. He takes my head in his hands and passionately kisses me, his lips moving urgently against mine, all thoughts of the meal forgotten.

We roll backwards into the sand, him above me. He moves his lips from my mouth, instead kissing my jaw and my throat, one of his hands supporting my head and the other holding him suspended above him.

I respond enthusiastically, knowing this is the last chance at love that I'll ever get. I roll again, now I'm laying above him. I drop my mouth to his ear, whispering, "I love you, Gale."

He pulls himself into a sitting position, me in his lap. "I love you, Catnip. And that's just why this sucks so much. We could've left, you know. Tried to run away, the day of the reaping. But now that's all gone, and I'll never get a second chance at it."

"What?" I ask, confused.

He frowns, only reluctantly responding after a few more kisses. "Leaving you. I don't think I can do it, I might be too selfish."

Still, I don't understand. "What are you talking about, Gale?" I question urgently.

"There can't be two victors," he says, not meeting my eyes, turning his back on me.

And then I understand. He's been thinking the same things that I have this entire time, only in reverse order. He wants to kill himself…so that I'll go home, as the sole victor.

"Is that why you volunteered?" I ask quietly. "So you could make absolutely sure I would come home?"

He nods.

I stand up, not wanting to have to be near him. The distance would help my clarity of thought, anyways. It's just too much. I can't have Gale regretting his life…he can't want death. The idea was that I would make the sacrifice, for the good of him. For everything.

I hate the way his mind works, sometimes. It's those deluded ideas he gets, that unwavering determination in achieving his goals that makes him impossible to debate with.

He doesn't need to wreck my careful planning.

The anger and frustration boil inside of me, building up until I can't contain them anymore. "No, Gale!" I scream, kicking sand in his face. "No. You're ruining this!"

He reaches out and places a hand on my shoulder, trying to console me, as he rubs his eyes with the other.

I'm not having it.

"You can't just go and kill yourself so I live, Gale. Because that would suck for me, and I'd have no excuse to keep going. And then your whole life would've been wasted on a stupid, miserable girl."

I'm yelling, surely frightening off any animals within a two hundred foot radius.

"Either way, one of us is going to die," he states pessimistically. "I hate it –"

I cut him off, before he can get out any more treasonous words against the capitol. What they'd do to our families if they heard…

I walk back to him, and place my chin on his shoulder. He accepts me, not moving.

We sit together the entire day, just enjoying the few quiet moments we've got left together. We sit for hours in silence, Gale tracing the scabbing cut on my thigh and me drawing meaningless patterns in the sand.

If I were given the chance, I would sit here, like this, in Gale's lap, for eternity.

Of course, if all goes to plan, my eternity's bound to be limited to just a few hours more.

Breaking the hour long silence, Gale finally speaks. I feel the slight movements of his chest as he forms words.

"Do you remember the time you taught me to swim, Katniss?" Gale asks.

I do. "You learned fast," I say, recalling the lazy summer afternoon when we'd shunned our hunting responsibilities in favor of the cool, placid waters of the pond in the woods above our homes.

"You were a good teacher," Gale answers peacefully. I can tell he's lost in thought by the vacant look in his eyes and his tone of voice.

"Mmm," I say happily. This memory in particular is one of my favorites. The way Gale had looked that day, the pleasant, warm feeling that had filled my chest when he'd laughed.

The truth is, all of my happy memories since my father's death center around Gale. From the day I'd first seen him in the justice building, and then later when we'd met in the woods, to the morning before our reaping.

"When I first saw you," begins Gale, tightening his grip around my shoulders and burying his face in my dirty, unwashed hair. "I knew you were special."

I stiffen, afraid of this memory. I don't want to remember all those gloomy details from the day we were acknowledged by the mayor for our fathers' deaths. It was as though they were thanking me for my father's life.

Like they thought it was something that could be taken away, and replaced with the cheap aluminum medal I'd been given.

I remember seeing Gale with his family that day, too. I'd looked on and seen his mother, Hazelle, eight months pregnant, and surrounded by two other children. And then a younger Gale, his hair had been shorter then. I'd watched in awe as he walked calmly to the podium, gracefully accepting his 'award.'

He was where I had drawn my own bravery from. I had taken his actions as an example, forcing myself to remain calm as the tall boy with dark hair and grey eyes had.

"I knew you were special, too. Even though I didn't know you yet, you still helped me," I say. I'm surprised at myself, I've never spoken about that day before. Not even to my own mother, and now I'm saying aloud for the entire country to hear. Tears leak from my eyes, and I turn around so that I'm facing Gale. I hide myself in his neck, breathing in his scent as I sob loudly.

"Shhh, Catnip," he croons. "It's okay, Katniss."

The words are a lie, but they're comforting all the same. I grip him tightly, my fingers knotted into his messy hair.

"Gale," I choke out. "I don't want to leave."

I feel him pause underneath me, then he pushes me away. "Don't talk about that now," he says. "There's no way we're going to agree…there's no compromise. We both know one of us has to die tonight, but for now we should be happy."

He holds my head firmly in his hands, forcing me to look into those steel eyes of his. He's angry, I can see it. I can only admire his self-control – it must be something he's learned in the arena, he had no sense of caution when I knew him before. He was reckless, and now that's all been ruthlessly destroyed. For entertainment.

The coarse sand presses into my shin, and my eyes sting from the tears. I'm exhausted. Giving in, just for the moment, I relax again, slumping against his chest, feeling how taught his nerves are, how each one of his muscles is coiled and ready to spring.

For the rest of the day, we are almost at peace. We don't speak, we don't need to. Words are not what today is about. I kiss him a few times, and he kisses me back. The kisses aren't enthusiastic, they're sad and mourning, and maybe masking a little bit of the anger that I know he's trying to hide.

Once, he reaches out with his tongue to trace my lower lip. It seems like the world is moving in slow motion, my ears ring and a warm feeling spreads from my chest to my fingertips. I shudder once, but don't try to move away. I feel the urgency in the embrace, Gale's finally cracked and is letting a little bit of the raw power and emotion he's been hiding through.

I move with him, releasing all the pent up energy that I've been struggling to keep contained within myself.

When I can't breathe anymore, I break away, allowing myself to fall back on the sand, panting.

It's a bittersweet moment. I couldn't be more filled with love and longing, ad yet I know that it's all going to be over soon.

When the dark sky falls overhead, I try to fall asleep beside Gale, but I can't. Menacing thoughts continue racing through my mind, and I can't chase away the image of me, slitting my own throat the way I slit Thresh's, or hanging myself from a tree like in the childhood hymn. I constantly imagine myself jumping from a high cliff, or jamming an arrow into my chest.

There are so many ways to do it…

And I know that Gale's considering the same things right now, considering his words, and the slight, uneven gasps that are the sounds of his breathing.

This is what gives me the idea. If Gale and I both refused to die, or kill the other…if we forced the capitol to choose the victor…

Wouldn't it be evident to the people of Panem that the capitol killed one of us?

Plans formulating in my mind, I sit quietly until Gale's breath evens out and I know that he's fallen completely asleep. I disengage myself from his embrace, and tiptoe toward the fire pit, coaxing a spark from the dying embers. I toss the bows and the knives into the fire, it crackles to life.

Next, I move to take the knife I know Gale's got tucked into the waist of his pants. I kneel silently beside him, holding my breath as my hand slips toward his waist. I tug at his shirt, untucking it from the muddy pants his stylist dressed him in. There, beside his right hip, is the handle of the knife he's hidden from me. I recognize it as the one he used at the Cornucopia…

Terrified that my hand will slip and I'll slide my fingers against his bare skin, I move slowly. After what seems like an eternity, I grip the red handle of the knife and slide it from his pants, and hide it, along with my own dagger, deep in the pocket of my jacket.

I stand up, watching the orange flames engulf the weaponry, enjoying the smell of burning wood and melting iron. This wood burns hot.

Gale stirs beside me, awoken by the smoke that sits in a cloud around us. His eyes widen, moving from me to the fire, then patting his waist where his knife was just moments ago. I watch his face as he does the math, and the meaning behind my actions occurs to him.

He smiles, understanding my scheme. "You're amazing."

I smile back, laughing. I lift my face upward, toward the cameras that I know are taking in every second of this action. "Kill us now, Crane," I say, addressing the head game maker. "Go ahead and kill us."

I close the distance between Gale and myself, he wraps his hands low around my waist. With a soft smile, I hand him the shiny, silver knife, and take out my own at the same time. We step apart, looking skyward as we both press the knives to each other's throats.

There's a quick pause, in which neither of us moves or breathes. It's as though even the arena and the creatures in it are awaiting decision. I doubt even the viewers in the capitol are breathing. Maybe I was wrong. Perhaps the government truly is so confident that they wouldn't think twice before slaughtering one of us…

Suddenly, however, trumpets blare. I was right.

I hear Claudius Templesmith's voice projected throughout the arena. It's loud, and rings with a rich quality that could only be enhanced by expensive digital augmentation.

"Tributes!" he announces. "There's been a change in the rulings!"

I turn around and beam at Gale, gleeful in our success. We've both made it.

This year, there will be two victors. In whatever way this'll affect our lives, and the history of Panem, I couldn't be happier.

Templesmith's voice crackles to life once again.

"We have decided that, in accommodation with current events, there will be two victors chosen so long as they are both residents of the same district."

There. He said it.

The next moments are surreal, like an out of body experience. It's as though I've gone into shock, and my mind won't process the information that's flooding around me, so much is happening at once.

I'm shell shocked. I turn around, and see Gale recovering from the stunned expression he was wearing, as his face changes to show true admiration.

Abruptly, there's a loud explosion behind us. I spin around, reaching for the knife that's not there anymore, ready to defend Gale and I from any foe. But instead of the attacker I'd expected, I see bright lights coloring the nighttime sky. The fireworks pop in the distance, showering down around us in glittering sparks as the hovercrafts arrive overhead.

We're each drawn into an electric current which takes us upward into the hovercrafts, as the cacophony of celebratory colors and sounds continues within the arena, and instead we hear the roaring of the crowd from speakers within the hovercraft.

The first thing I notice upon entrance of the hovercraft is the thick, cloying scent. It's nothing like the clean, pristine scent of wind and pine I've become accustomed to.

Being enclosed in such a small space, and one that smells so much like roses…it's too much. I begin to choke, and my vision blurs. I try to remember what this appalling odor reminds me of…

Next, all that I see is blackness, and I've got an earsplitting headache.


	12. Chapter 12

**GALE AND KATNISS**

**PART 12 (WOW, ALREADY!)**

**A/N: another one down… And it's almost over… I must admit, I will regret the moment when this story draws to a close. I also regret the moments when I check my inbox and there are no reviews…hint, hint. But anyways, enjoy this one, because I'll be going on vacation soon, and probably won't be terribly motivated (or within range of wireless internet) to write. So, my advice to my lovely readers is this: pace yourselves. AND I do have one more thing to request of y'all. I need ideas and/or inspiration for a Catching Fire book, or I won't write one. Hehe. **

**Disclaimer: Honestly, after all of our time together? You're seriously going to tell me you want a disclaimer? Fine then. With all due respect to the lovely (but controversially deluded) Suzanne Collins, who is a most venerable character, I hereby claim that I am not her. Except when I'm dreaming. **

**So, enjoy. **

I awaken to a hospital scene, with frantic doctors and surgeons flurrying about in clouds of white and blue scrubs, surgical masks covering their faces. On a white tray to my right is a thin, elegant scalpel. I shudder, trying not to imagine what that's going to be used for later.

It's disconcerting, how everything here is either white or blue. I'm starved for some kind of variation in color, or a flaw of any kind. The sanitary walls and flawless skin of the doctors surrounding us are too…perfect.

I look down, and see that I'm lying on a hospital bed, covered in paper sheets. There's an IV taped into my arm, and several tubes of multicolored fluid are hanging from a rack above my head. I've never been fond of needles, I never allowed even my mother to administer antibiotics through a syringe.

I open my mouth to protest, but I must've been given a second dose of morphine, because for a moment my senses are dulled, and then I'm unconscious again.

After the second time I'm anesthetized, I don't awaken again.

For what seems like an eternity, I see nothing, hear nothing, and feel nothing. I float in and out of reality in my medically induced coma, my mind reliving the games in perturbingly vivid memories that I'd much rather forget. And I can hear in the memories. Rue's scream, it reverberates throughout my skull, echoing over and over and over again. Thresh's last breath is an enormous gust of wind that rages around me. The melodic hum of Gale's voice buzzes in my ears. I see the glint of a knife in the sunlight, and I'm blinded, my head pounding.

But then, slowly, I begin to remember where I am. The first thing I notice is the smell. It reminds me of Haymitch…and lemons. When I inhale, the scent burns my nostrils. Disinfectant, I remember. After that first revelation, I notice other things as well. Temperature. Texture. I must be on a hospital cot, the kind covered in thin paper sheets.

Yes, that's right. The games are over. Gale and I, we're both alive. I can go home to my family. It's blissful, knowing that these thoughts, once dreams, are now a reality.

At least, I hope so.

After days in oblivion, it's hard to open my eyes and take in my new surroundings. I feel warmth on the back of my eyelids, and remember something. Sunshine. I crack my eyes open a tiny bit, wanting to recall more than just the sensation. I want to see the warm yellow light, flooding through an open window.

I crave it.

Once I open my eyes, however, I am distracted by the sights and smells around me, and quickly forget about the sunshine.

My mind is starved for new information, and I take in as much as I can of my surroundings. However, there isn't much to look at in the room.

An overwhelming sense of boredom overcomes me. It irritates me that after such dramatized, chaotic events, my life has become an endless world of dullness. I struggle to entertain myself, tapping my fingers against the sheets and admiring a lone crack in the plaster ceiling.

After I've been counting my finger taps for a while, a nurse wearing nondescript white scrubs enters my room. She's holding a tray of food, none of it looks particularly appetizing. Wielding a silver spoon laden with runny eggs, she begins to feed me.

The eggs are repulsive. I can taste the artificiality in them, and I never really was a fan of runny eggs. I try not to gag, wishing I could go back to being fed through the IV that's still inserted deep in my arm.

But while the food is disgusting, it's a welcome change from the abrupt nothingness that I've been suffering for days. I truly wish I could see Gale…

I know that his presence would settle me, make me content once again. His absence makes me anxious. It's an abysmal combination, anxiety and boredom. My nerves are taught, I'm sure that my tense behavior and precarious mental state aren't assisting my recovery.

The nurse leaves, and I fall asleep. When she returns again, I awaken. We follow this pattern for several days, me eventually coming to hate her presence. How I long for someone else's…

Although I complain, I get nothing but the disgusting eggs. The nurse's grip is unsteady, sometimes she spills the eggs and they run down my neck. Revolting.

However, after what seems like an eternity, someone else comes to me.

I wake up to the gentle touch of his hands, I'm surprised by how shockingly soft they are. I've never felt those hands so smooth and callous free, it's as though the doctors have scrubbed off an entire layer of his olive skin.

I open my eyes slowly, wondering if it's a dream. The first thing I notice is the darkness. It's inky black in here, nothing like the usual brightness that I've become accustomed to.

When my eyes adjust to the darkness, I finally get to see his face. Finally. A rush of warmth floods through me as I take in his bold expression, his beautiful grey eyes, his long, glossy black hair that curls in the tiniest bit at the ends. I extricate a hand from the pile of tubes attached to me, and reach it upward to touch his amazing face.

I lean forward, trying to take all of him in. He's wearing only his paper hospital gown, it hardly falls to his knees. There're several hastily applied bandages covering his arms, as if someone – someone who isn't a doctor – ripped out the various IV's he'd been connected to. I'm beginning to get the idea that he's not supposed to be here.

"Hey, Catnip," he whispers, stroking my hair and sitting down beside me. Even if his presence is illegal, that doesn't mean I can't enjoy it.

"Hey, Gale," I answer. My voice is raspy from a lack of use, I'm surprised at the weak sound of it.

We sit in silence for a long time, just remembering. It's easier to remember with Gale at my side. It means that I have someone share the burden with.

At long last, Gale breaks the silence. "You said something in the arena," he says. I'm not sure what he's talking about. "I wanted to find out if it was still true, outside. When there weren't thousands of people watching."

At my confused expression he sighs, exasperated. "I love you, Katniss."

I remember. How could he think that what I had said wasn't true? Could he have believed it was an act, just to draw sponsorships? I wonder whether it's possible that he would really expect that from me.

Then again, I have no way of knowing what I would've been capable of if he hadn't come with me. After all, I am a murderer.

After a long pause, I decide to answer him. Truthfully. "I love you, Gale."

Finally, I get what I wanted and he leans in ever so slowly to kiss me. His lips are soft now, not chapped like they were in the arena. He's gentle, though, like he's afraid to hurt me.

Maybe that's good. I'm not sure exactly what physical state I'm in.

The sensations are a thousand times magnified, and the kiss is surreal. My heart beats rapidly, and I begin to pant.

Somewhere behind me, I hear a quick beeping. It's irritating, and I wish it would go away until I realize that it's my cardiac monitor, and that it's constant beeping mirrors the beating of my own heart.

We break away, knowing that the monitor's going to reveal us. I remember how before, whenever I'd become excited or overly nervous, I'd been given another dose of morphine through one of the clear tubes hooked to my arm.

Sure enough, it's not long before I lose my motor control.

Of course, the capitol had to steal even that moment from me. Why can't they leave me alone? The games are over, aren't they?

When I awake again, I feel cool steel bands chaffing against my wrist and pressing into my stomach. I suffer a moment of panic at the restriction of movement, until I remember that any sudden movements are only going to bring another dose of anesthetic to knock me out.

Turning my head carefully so as not to upset the cool steal bounds that hold me tight, I survey the room around me. I've been moved to another room, this one is bigger and there's a large window to my right. At last, I can see the sky, even if it is only the smog of the capitol. To my right is another hospital bed, with a dark haired, sleeping figure lying on it.

I smile, unreasonably happy as I remember the last time I saw him. It's amazingly relieving to have Gale at my side, where I can keep track of him, and where he can look after me. Feeling extraordinarily secure, I lean back onto the thin pillow, allowing myself to drift off naturally this time.

I certainly need the rest.

The rest of my recovery happens quickly, probably due to Gale's company, and I'm soon being briefed for the after games interview.

Eventually, I'm even removed from the IV and sent to see Cinna.

I'm warmly greeted by my prep team, they cluster around me, combing through my destroyed hair and picking at every imperfection that's left on my skin. The colors of their hair and skin are dizzying after months of muted beiges and greens. Nature colors.

They chatter constantly, desperate for gossip about parties and appearances. For the most part, I do my best to tune them out. While I've become rather fond of my clueless little pets, I'm not sure that Gale's feelings mirror mine. He's less sympathetic to naivety.

And at last, I'm relinquished to see my stylist, and I have to admit that I'm looking forward to it. While he still hasn't proved his complete sanity, I'm now convinced that he's not a madman, either. More of…an artistic genius.

He looks the same as he did before the games, his hazel eyes lined in gold. I smile at him, waiting patiently while he adjusts the prep team's work. It occurs to me that I ought to get used to this, I'll be encountering it every year from now on.

Before I can truly consider the horrors of mentoring children who'll enter the games, I force myself to instead focus on my makeover, as it's slightly less painful.

Looking in the mirror, I don't see a girl, but a corpse, albeit a well made-up corpse. My eyes are sunken and my shoulders and hips are far to defined. I can easily count each of my ribs, and my hair falls in lanky tangles around my thin face. I'm reminded of those photos we were shown in school. I'd been terrified by those war veterans…especially the way their dead, zombie-like bodies were perfect matches for the burnt out looks in their eyes. Like they were dead inside.

It's a good thing I still have Gale and my family, I think. They give me something to live for.

I sigh, seeing Cinna approach me in the mirror. "I'm sorry," I say. "I really haven't left you anything to work with."

He grimaces, but doesn't seem shocked at all by my appearance. "Tributes have come out of the games looking worse than this."

I'm given a light blue dress that falls loosely around my knees. I can see where Cinna's made up for a lot of my weight loss, through strategic draping of the silky fabric and careful pleating. My hair is washed with pungent products and curled into loose ringlets, and the pain on my face is erased by yet another layer of shimmering makeup. When I step into the short, whitish heels, I can't help but feel how fake it all is.

The citizenry of the capitol saw me nearly die in the arena – are they so naïve that they won't detect the difference in my appearance, or the way I've changed since they last saw me in the arena to now? I exhale loudly again, knowing that the capitol's afraid to admit that their favorite television program is truly just a brutal, controlling weapon of war.

I see Haymitch underneath the stage, he's dressed in a midnight blue suit and he's clean shaven. To be honest, I'm taken aback by how…clean he looks. My mentor half smiles, half grimaces at me as he takes in my dress, in an almost apologetic way. "Hey, Sweetheart," he says. I smile appreciatively, he's truly made an effort to stay sober for Gale and I. And frankly, he's done more than any other mentor's ever done before.

We're both going home.

And to my surprise, he draws me into a hug. The smell of wine and spirits that usually lingers around him is masked by the smell of soap and fresh sawdust. When I tentatively wrap my arms around his neck, he puts his mouth close to my ear and begins to speak in an urgent tone, and I immediately see through the smug, carefully orchestrated façade he's been upholding.

"That stunt you pulled in the arena, when you burned the weapons. The Capitol's not happy about it," he says hurriedly. "They're going to make your life a living hell."

So it's out of the frying pan, and into the fire. Figures.

"What can I do?" I ask, desperate for any chance to reconcile with the capitol, desperate for peace.

"You broke the rules," Haymitch says. "There's only supposed to be one victor. And your actions were either downright treason, or just the mad, last ditch efforts of a little girl in love."


	13. Chapter 13

**GALE AND KATNISS **

**PART 13 **

**A/N: And, viola! Here's lucky chapter 13 of Pynnelopi's The Hunger Games….and we're drawing ever nearer to the point at which this story comes to a close. Anyways, I'm still playing with a few ideas about a Catching Fire-esque book to follow this one. I'm wondering whether I should send Katniss and Gale back into the games, how Katniss become the Mockingjay, and whether they'll run away…..So. Reviews, please! And thank you so very much for the lovely reviews I got for the last chapter!**

**Disclaimer: Not Suzanne Collins. She's older than me, and actually has a college degree. I think. **

**Enjoy.**

My heart drops down to my stomach as I comprehend Haymitch's words.

Oh. I think back, and try to remember exactly what had been running through my mind before the games ended, until I realize that the truth doesn't matter. It's the act.

"What could they do to me, if they decide it was treason?" I ask, thinking that any form of torture or punishment couldn't have much effect on a victor of the Hunger Games. After all, what could be worse than being thrown into an arena, forced to choose between either killing or being killed?

"It's not you they'll attack," he whispers. "Your family. They'll take everything until you have nothing. For their sake, you have to show the capitol just how madly you're in love with Gale."

So. The capitol still has a claim on every last detail of my life. It's time for me to let go of those misconceptions I'd had about life after the games. About Gale. About my family.

My family – I consider all of the times that I'd thought of my mother and Prim during the games, and how I'd done so much to ensure their safety. Had I really just endangered them, all over again? Could all those precautions have been for nothing?

As the words sink in, I realize the true repercussions of my actions. Once one person does one thing, it won't be long before the rest will follow. Panem has become a gigantic set of dominoes, balanced precariously on the brink of complete insurgency, and I just flicked the first one over.

My heart, already having descended to my stomach, plummets even farther as I come to grasp the magnitude of my despair.

"Did you tell Gale?" I ask.

Haymitch winces. "He knows."

Of course. Of course Gale would have figured it out immediately. He probably even knew when we were in the games…

I'm slightly annoyed at the fact that I'm always the one that things need to be explained to. I hate to think that I could truly be that ignorant.

I'm not given long to process this information; as I step away from Haymitch, a bearded Avox approaches, directing us toward the plate which will rise up, bringing us to Caesar Flickerman's illustrious set.

When I'm revealed to the capitol, it's a moment before I can take anything in besides the bright, flashing lights and the colors. These colors make everything I'd seen in the arena look false, they're so bright and saturated and intense. It's dreamlike.

After the first few seconds, I look to my side and see Gale standing there, wearing a dark suit with a light blue shirt that matches my dress. Behind him, looking extremely pleased, are Portia and Effie.

I can't hide the huge grin that spreads across my face, and I run a few steps before leaping into his arms. Being at his side once again is pure euphoria.

Being Gale, he catches me easily in his strong, dependable arms. It feels so good to have him touching me once again…

I look upward to gauge his expression, and see that his face has been lit up with delight, a mirror of my own. Then, he gently deposits me on my toes, and leans in to kiss me.

Even though I know it's staged, I can't help but enjoy the sensations that rip through my body. It's been too long. I allow my need to push us farther into the embrace, wanting the romance to be visible to all. The audience needs to see this.

People cheer loudly, and whistle, I'm mildly revolted by how easily they can be entertained.

Eventually, the spontaneity of our embrace stops being entertaining, and Caesar taps on Gale's shoulder, wanting to get on with the interview, but Gale shoves him away, kissing me even more enthusiastically. My ears ring, and in this moment, I couldn't be gladder that he's here at my side. The audience goes berserk, stomping and calling out loudly.

Perfect.

What seems like years later, Haymitch decides to step in, and good-naturedly shoves us toward Flickerman.

Seeing the familiarity of Caesar, beckoning us forward, I approach him, my hand still entangled in Gale's, where it should be. I see that the typical velour throne that the victor usually sits in has been replaced with a plush loveseat, in accommodation with the increased quantity of victorious tributes we've had this year.

I curl up beside Gale, my head resting in the place between his shoulder and his neck, and he protectively places one arm around my shoulders and hugs me close with the other. I glance quickly at Haymitch, and he's nodding his approval at our closeness.

I'm momentarily angered, not wanting this to be fake. Gale is my hunting partner, there never was anything false about us, there was never any reason for judgement, for each of our actions to be thoroughly dissected and arbitrated. And now, it's different. No matter what, there will always be things between us that we won't know for sure. I despise the capitol for that.

It's like déjà vu, sitting here, pretending to laugh at Caesar's trite jokes, but even though the tension is different this time, it's still there. I use the same awkward, unsure smile, and I go back to fiddling with my fingernails as I had so long ago.

The difference is that Gale is here beside me this time. Gaining confidence from his support, I force myself to look up and take part in the conversation, letting the hungry cameras absorb my face. I know what I need to do, and this is important. Lives are at stake.

"So," says Caesar, leaning forward with his elbows rested on his knees. "How did it feel, being in the games together?"

I shift uncomfortably in my seat, unsure how to answer. Thousands of eyes, all across Panem, bore into my skull, their owners hanging on my every word.

I've never been good with pressure.

Luckily, Gale saves me. "Well, my main priority was keeping Katniss alive. The rest I could deal with."

I sigh sadly, knowing that this is true. My reaction is mirrored by the audience's, I can hear the gasps and laments of all those lovesick citizens at once. I suppose I should start to get used to this sort of reaction.

I'm inspired by Gale's words, and choose to be truthful myself, as well. "Yes, Gale couldn't seem to accept the fact that I wanted _him _to be the victor, not me. It was frustrating, and at the same time, terrifying."

"Well, it looks like both of you were successful," Flickerman prods. "Mind telling me why you two were so protective of each other?"

I start slowly, but gain momentum and volume as I speak. "We'd known each other back in 12," I say. "Our fathers were killed in the same mining accident…and then, we just sort of started to work together. Gale became my best friend, and more."

Now Flickerman indicates for Gale to speak. "I volunteered so Katniss could come home. Coming with her is just an added bonus."

I blush, lowering my eyes to hide the redness that's covering my cheeks. Gale, however, knows we can't hide from the cameras for long. He catches my chin with his agile fingers, pulling my face up to where he can reach it with his mouth.

The audience sighs, I hear a few people break into half genuine sobs. Inwardly, I know that my true emotions are the same as their false ones.

Caesar, however, doesn't give us long before he goes back to the questions. He does have a schedule to uphold, afterall. "And how was it, thinking that one of you would eventually have to die?"

Now we're on dangerous ground. We have to be careful what we say, President Snow could easily interpret it as treasonous – but on the other hand, I almost wonder if it's already a lost cause. I pause for a second, gathering my thoughts before I speak. "I was ready to make the sacrifice." My voice comes out as a tiny whisper, catching in my throat. Gale nods in agreement.

Our lovely host isn't going to take a short answer, though. "What about that little stunt where you burned the weapons and threatened mutual suicide at the end, though?"

Gale speaks first, as he places his hand protectively over mine. I hope he knows that this is the crucial moment, where our fate will be decided. "All I wanted was for Katniss to come home – I wasn't letting anyone change that. If I could be with her, that was a bonus, but I knew what my priorities were."

Even though the words are well planned, and have the right effect on the cooing audience, I know it's not enough. I have to speak now, too.

"I just knew, that if there was any chance we could both make it home, that I would take it. I couldn't bear the thought of life without my best friend…and…my love." I choke out the last words. I didn't want the capitol to have any part of that, but right now they practically own it.

Gale nods. "All's fair in love and war, and I think this was a little bit of both."

This is the perfect comment, it's the last little cliché that the capitol audience has been waiting for. Some break out in tears, others shriek in delight, but the overall reaction is a collective 'aw' that fills the studio. Somewhere behind us, I hear Haymitch huff in relief.

Satisfied with our answers, Caesar sits back. "Shall we watch the recap, then?" he cues a cameraperson off to the side, and the large screens behind us come to life.

The game makers will have edited the footage they've gained, turning it into a story. This year, it will be a love story. And, as I watch myself tramping through the woods, going from innocent girl to audacious killer at the blink of an eye, I'm mortified.

This country is transforming its innocent children into monstrosities.

At times, I don't even recognize myself. It's not the appearance, I look so much like myself, what with the bow and the boots and the braid, that it's disconcerting when compared with my actions. It's disgusting, what I've done, and watching this, all I can do is accept my actions.

The only moments when I did anything that wasn't completely regrettable are when I'm with Gale. The kiss…of course, the gamemakers contributed an entire fifteen minutes of screen time to just that first embrace. And when I'm caring for Gale, trying to heal his shoulder, those moments are alright, too. Taking care of him felt…right. My mother will be proud.

I bury my face in Gale's neck, trying to lose myself in the heady scent of him rather than dealing with the emotional hardship that comes from watching yourself slaughter innocent children.

At each death, I find myself thinking, 'I'm sorry.' I feel sick to my stomach, and I'm repulsed by the way the audience exclaims and claps at each new turn of events. Judging by the way Gale's jaw has tightened and his muscles are tensed, I can tell that he's feeling similar things to what I am. However, I notice that I'm no longer terrified he'll jump from his seat and proceed to cut the throats of anyone nearby. The games have changed him, too, and I feel a pang of remorse for the fiery passion that we both wasted in the arena.

Then, finally, I feel a slight rush of redemption as I watch myself, the determination alive in my eyes, as I set fire to our weapons. Yes, I did defy the capitol – and Snow will not be pleased to find that I've overcome the challenge of his sadistic little games.

When it's finally over, I realize that I'm shaking. I press myself closer to Gale's side, feeling the shape of his muscles, wishing I could completely melt into his skin. The accumulation of the night's events is too much, and I can't take it any longer. Carefully, trying to do it so that the audience won't see, I press a fist into my mouth to keep myself silent, biting down hard on my polished knuckles.

At long last, Caesar stands and salutes the crown, makes a few comments about the games that I don't listen to. Then, it's time.

When Snow approaches us, a small boy carrying a pillow with a crown placed precariously on it walking carefully before him, I feel my lower lip begin to tremble. I'm afraid I won't be able to hold myself together for the duration of the program.

Snow lifts the crown, and it breaks apart into two silver circlets, absolving the confusion that had entered the room. "To the victors of the 74th Hunger Games," he announces. "Katniss Everdeen and Gale Hawthorne."

While his voice may have sounded congratulatory to the audiences watching us, Gale and I know otherwise. Hidden deep beneath layers of false pleasure is a venomous edge that's warning us of something. Probably of some wrath to come.

I'm reluctant to accept the crown. Honestly, I don't want it. I feel Gale constrict beside me, and I place a restraining hand on his knee as the president approaches us. I mentally beg that he'll be patient enough to accept the crown. Personally, I'm fighting an inner battle to keep myself from smashing it into shards on the floor. Who would want to be crowned for this sort of accomplishment?

Up close, snow's face is frightening, and oddly snakelike. His nose is small and flat, but most of the resemblance lies in his evil, malice filled eyes. He doesn't forgive our actions.

The country won't forgive our actions.

Surprised by the cruelty of his appearance, I quickly draw in a deep breath, only to be assaulted by a second astonishment. It's the saccharine scent of the rose tucked in his lapel – but mixed with something else, something moist and salty and…rusty? Looking at his puffy, red mouth, I place the second smell. Blood.

His hands are frightening as well – the skin is darker, more orange, than it should be, and stretched tight across his plump fingers. He picks up my crown, holding it as though it's very fragile, and crowns us with the ornate tiaras.

He withdraws, turning his face toward the crowd, the malevolent expression changed to one of celebratory indulgence.

It's the capitol, I remind myself, it's all going to be an act.

Caesar stands, beckoning for us to follow him, and addresses the crowd, smiling as he pulls Gale and I into a deep bow, strategically positioned between the two of us. My gaze sweeps across the effervescent crowd of people, people whose eyes are alit with excitement and anticipation. And I wonder exactly what I've gotten myself into.

Smiling and waving to the escorts who've followed us, we're whisked offstage and rushed onto our train.


	14. Epilogue

**GALE & KATNISS**

**EPILOGUE**

**A/N: Here it is – the end. It's absolutely tangible. BUT if you would like to see more, send me some phenomenal ideas for my sequel, because after this chapter it'll be a while before I get inspired again. Enormous thanks to my readers (especially those of you who're kind enough to review), and I'm hugely grateful to those of you who've stuck with it to the end. **

**Disclaimer: If I were an award winning author I would not publish on . Also, my stories would be longer.**

**ENJOY! **

We're in the same car that we entered the first time, so long ago. I recognize the lavish décor and cramped arrangement of furniture, the way it felt antique but innovative at the same time. The setting is so reminiscent, and yet everything has changed. We're no longer two frightened tributes, uncertain of whether they'll have a future or not. We're victors, veterans. And while the title upholds the greatest honor, I can't help but feel as though it's all wrong.

Because I know now that it's not over with. We're still playing a game – only this one's not confined to an arena.

No, from this point onward, the extents of the game will enclose every aspect of our lives.

Gale and I, we'll be retrieved for the victory tour in a few months, to be paraded throughout the districts as a reminder of the games – and that they don't go away. While we might be given some sort of reprieve now, I can't pretend that the horrors of the games will come to an end. The thought is devastating.

I need to find air, to think before these thoughts swallow me whole. Silently, I tiptoe throughout the luxurious car and step outside. I'm greeted by a chill breeze, and it's welcomed after weeks in the temperature controlled capitol. I lean on the iron railing, staring out into the darkness of the night that engulfs the train.

I think I even see a star – a real one, luminous in its own right, rather than a projection provided for the comfort of a wealthy capitol resident.

After several minutes of stillness, I sense Gale behind me. He places a hand over mine, and I'm grateful for it, but also saddened. I miss the Gale and Katniss who were hunting partners, not star-crossed lovers, and not a product of the capitol. That's not who we were supposed to be. Our future has been ripped away from us, and made into something that it shouldn't have been, and now that's all we have. What if we get to the point when every touch, every gesture we make to one another is in front of a camera, to uphold the giant lie that governs our actions?

A tear slides down my cheek at this thought, but Gale reaches a finger out and wipes it away before it can fall.

"It's not all gone," he says.

For some reason, these words make me angry. How can he not understand, when he is Gale, when he understands everything? I don't see how he's going to refuse the situation, this time. "Yes, it is!" I shout, caught off guard by my own rage. "It is all gone. We only have what the capitol wants us to have, and that's not what I want!" I rage, hardly knowing where my own words come from.

"Katniss, stop it. Things could change. It's time that things do change." His words are spoken with a sort of knowledge and inspiration, the tone of someone with hope.

"What could we do?" I ask, my voice dropping to a low murmur as I struggle to comprehend his newfound optimism.

Gale smiles. "It's what we've already done." He reaches down and kisses me gently on the cheek, before he turns and walks back into the train.

I turn around and watch him go, considering what he's said. And I conclude that he's right. I can feel it, too. Something big is about to happen.

**To Be Continued….**


	15. AN Regarding the Sequel!

A/N: Well, there goes my rendition of The Hunger Games (copyright Suzanne Collins, all rights reserved to marvelous her), but that doesn't mean the fun must end!

My next stellar little novel-remake shall be titled 'We Burn,' and pick up a few months after this one left off It's my equivalent of Catching Fire (once again, congratulations to you, Suzanne, for being more creative and having royalties on your phenomenal book).

This one's a tiny bit darker, and more brutally evil than my last one was…I got a bit more graphic and creative with the ways you could kill someone (I'm maybe wondering if I should change the rating to M? But then I would feel guilty…).

So – I have written about three pages, but its taking me a while to figure out how to get the story set up right – I really wasn't happy at all with my first couple of attempts. IT should be published SOON, and maybe I'll give you a short preview this upcoming week?

Reviews: Thank you so very much to my reviewers, to whom I shall be eternally grateful. I WOULD like them to comment with any critiques/opinions/comments they have about my upcoming piece or the last one…..(wink, wink)…

Whaddya think? M?


	16. WE BURN preview

WE BURN

**PART I **

**A/N: You would not believe how many times it took me to get this one right – I couldn't seem to find a rhythm for the story. It was always to slow, and I needed to set up the stress & tension they were under before I could really write any fluff (which will be coming soon, don't worry). So this first chapter of my second book, mind you, is the product of much hard work. Also, it's a little more grim than my first book, especially in this chapter. Stick with the evilness, though, because it'll pay off in the end. And my last request? Reviews. They are awesome. Oh, and I'll be posting this onto the end of my first story, too, but only for the first chapter. **

**Disclaimer: I'm Suzanne Collins, so you should all bow down to me and kiss my toes and stuff, because I am an amazing author. Haha, just kidding, I'm a lowly highschool kid. **

**Enjoy. **

I slowly grind my carefully manicured toe into the ground behind the wooden podium, my shaky fingers twitching nervously. As I draw the courage to look up, I see the immense population of District 11 gathered before me. I pick up on a monotonous buzz, the sound of a crowd impatiently awaiting my words.

A man dressed in an ultramodern, cream suit hands Gale a large plaque that's inlaid with metal and covered in a thin sheet of glass, and presents me with a bouquet of flowers. I detect orange blossom, and maybe freesia, and something else with small white blossoms that I don't recognize.

With relief, I note that there isn't a single rose to be seen. Good – I need no reminder of President Snow and his headily sweet, but poisonous and thorny mannerisms.

The short, balding man in the suit nods at us, and returns to his seat beside the stage. This is our cue to present our speech.

Clearing my throat, it takes me a few tries to form coherent discourse, even though I'm only repeating the heavily censored prompts that have already been written down for me by someone in the capitol who's paid far, far too much.

"We would like to thank you, the citizens of District 11, for your support of the 74th Hunger Games and of the Capitol," I say after a few false starts, my cheeks twitching with the falsely pleasant expression that Cinna has affixed to my face.

Now it's Gale's turn. Cautiously, so the restraining motion is concealed behind our podium, I place a hand on the arm that's not draped around my shoulders, trying to remind him of the myriad cameras that will be recording and broadcasting our every words. Silently begging him to be careful.

"We'd like to congratulate your tributes on their exemplary performance this year," he says, with voice guarded and teeth clenched. "And to wish the next year's tributes luck, may the odds be ever in their favor." The last part is rushed, I can see the internal conflict clouding his usually clear grey eyes. He wants to speak the truth even more so than I do.

Really, though, it's a marvel that either of us has managed to keep up this tongue-in-cheek way of speaking for so long.

But as I finish the short speech, even I am aware that my words are so obviously transparent. "We're honored that we have the privilege to participate in the Hunger Games." I speak the line with my head tilted downward, eyes on my orange clad toes. I'm terrified that if I look up, make eye contact with the audience, they'll immediately see the lies, portrayed crystal clear in my face.

A woman in the front row stands, looks pointedly into my eyes, and spits at the foot of the stage. The message behind her actions couldn't be more clear – she knew, and the rest of the audience as well, probably, that there wasn't the slightest trace of a truth in my words.

There's a fiery pain in her large, gold-brown eyes, the kind of eyes that seem all knowing and wise. Then, I recognize her. The woman who so boldly defied our words is Thresh's grandmother.

The realization must be evident on my face, because this time it's Gale who's remembered that we've got to remain stoic, we've got to endorse these capitol words or face the consequences. His grip on my shoulder tightens a little, and I try to relax against him.

But that's not going to happen – because there, just to the right of Thresh's family, is Rue's. They stand there feebly, all six of her younger siblings staring up at us with hungry eyes and slack jaws.

And they aren't the only ones who show signs of perilous, abused lives. The entire crowd is plagued by hunger, fatigue, desperation, and everything else imaginable. I can't help it, no matter what the repercussions, no matter what Snow's sadistic punishment is, I've got to say something.

My voice is hurried at first, but Gale's reassuring hug encourages me to continue, to be sure in my words. "Wait!" I cry. "And I want to say I'm sorry, I'm sorry I killed Thresh and…and I guess I shot Rue, too, but I'm sorry, not that an apology makes any difference. I just…needed to say that."

Gale sighs. I can tell he's come to the same conclusion I have. "But most of all, we're sorry you have to suffer through the games, every year. Even though just a few tributes enter that damn arena, every last one of us feels as though we're dying right there with them."

It's unavoidable – if we weren't in trouble before, we most definitely are now. But since we've started, why not finish it

"Even if we're competing against one another, the districts are united. United we stand, united we fall." Even as I say the words, I know I'm digging my own grave. I just hope it's not my family's grave, too.

Our words were nothing but pure, treasonous expletives, but I don't regret saying them. It was what these people deserved to hear.

Rue's little brother steps forward, pulling away from his mother's clutching grasp, and presses the three middle fingers of his right hand to his lips – and then the whole population of 11 is mirroring his actions, a surreal display that mirrors the one Gale and I witnessed as we left for the games all those months ago.

This is the last straw. Finally, the filming is cut and the peacekeepers intervene, guns cradled in their arms as they press against the crowd, and the little boy, who couldn't have been more than two, is forced forward.

Thousands of eyes watch, mortified, as a thin, white haired peacekeeper prods him in the back with the barrel of his gun, forcing him to his knees. The small child cries out in pain as his is torn on the cold asphalt beneath him, and tears stream freely down his cheeks, cutting through what looks like weeks' worth of grime. Another gun is placed deliberately and slowly at his temple. Even more slowly, a hand in a white glove stretches its fingers, and pulls the trigger.

We all hear the last, piercing scream of the dying child as it rings shrilly through the square, and then we see the mess of blood that's splattered everywhere before us, and the ruined, mutilated corpse that was a beautiful toddler just moments ago, and the destroyed, fractured remains of what I think are his skull.

Gale covers my eyes with one hand, briskly leading me away with the other. I drop the bouquet in a puddle of blood, and he tosses the ornate plaque to the ground, where the class frame shatters, just the way that poor child's life just did.

My mind is completely blank as I'm pulled through a door and through several corridors, and another door is locked behind me. We're in some kind of private, cluttered basement room, where there's little light and the air is cool and damp.

Haymitch is here with us, I realize, as he sloshes his whiskey into my face. Alcohol burns my eyes and nose, I gasp, spluttering.

Gale's arm leaves my side, I hear him scream something at Haymitch and there's a crash as something falls to the floor, who responds with choice profanity. The two shout unbelievable profanities at each other, voices escalating until I fear they'll physically harm one another.

Haymitch seems to have given up on Gale, as he thrusts his face close to mine. "What the hell were you thinking out there, sweetheart?" he hollers seethingly. "Not only did you completely screw your entire life, and your family's life, and my life, over, you got some damn kid killed in the process."

His words sting – because they're true. I gasp, trying to clear my shocked, dizzy mind and comprehend what's going on around me. I want to be strong, to be calm, to find some way to repair the damage I've done, but I can't do it. As I take a breath to speak my mind, to ask for forgiveness, the only thing that escapes my throat is an enormous, pitiful sob.

Suddenly Gale's tackled Haymitch, driving him into a bookshelf and smashing a mirror that got in their way. His fists are wrapped in our drunk mentor's shirt, and I know that he's contemplating strangling him. "Shut up, will you?" he growls, voice breaking.

I watch, unable to do anything, as they both slide to the ground, defeated in their own rights amid the shards of mirror.

'"Shit," says Haymitch.

Gale crawls tentatively to my side, wiping tears from my face. "I'm so sorry."

I look up, meet his smoky eyes, and lean my sweaty forehead against his. "It's not your fault. And it's not like there's anything we can do about it now."

Haymitch chuckles grimly behind us. "Exactly – it's about time you've figured it out." He pauses midway through to swig from his now nearly empty bottle, "Once you start a fire, it's hard to put it out."

Gale sighs before him, his warm breath blowing in my face. "Yeah, and Panem's gonna make a big fire."

Excellent. We've caused a wide-scale mutiny, and there's nothing left for us to do but embrace it, it and all of the deaths and tragedies it's going to cause.

The sound of an unrelenting, vicious knocking at the door to the basement interrupts our brief dispute, and our incensed emotions are replaced by a silent, foreboding dread of the man on the other side of that door. I freeze, breath catching in my throat.

Ever so slowly, I turn my head, my eyes meeting with Gale's matching ones. He looks deeply into my face for a moment, searching my eyes, before he gingerly cups a calloused hand over my mouth, ensuring my silence.

I watch, petrified with fear, as his free hand slips into the waistband of his rumpled suit, and withdraws his favorite hunting knife.

I know this knife well – it's the one I learned to skin a rabbit for the pelt with, the one he used whittle Prim and Rory and Posy's dolls and toys with, and the knife my mother has borrowed countless times to treat her patients.

It's not a knife that's been used against another human being before – whether wielded in self-defense or not.

But now it's griped firmly in his practiced fist, and aimed toward the place where that old, thick door will open.

Haymitch, who has been sprawled behind us, nursing the fresh cuts on his palms, scrambles to his feet, observing Gale and I shrewdly. Then Gale nods beside me, shifts his weight, and Haymitch has thrown open the door.

The same peacekeeper who shot Rue's little brother just minutes ago bursts into the cellar, gun cradled against his chest and white uniform splattered with red.

He only has a moment to search the room with those astute, pale eyes of his, before Gale has leapt forward, wrapping him in a headlock, and pressing the silver bladed hunting knife to the man's throat, where his adam's apple bobs nervously.

I stand, walking around to face the man, wrath and fury bubbling within me. Had I not proved to the world that I am a monster, just months before? And if I am a monster, what wicked name could be bestowed on this executionist?

As he struggles futilely against Gale's strong choke hold, I allow the rage to form itself into words. I'm shrieking, disjointed in my ranting, but I let the words tumble out of me all the same. "Barbarian! Who shoots an innocent child? You cruel beast, you son of a -b" I'm cut off as Haymitch grabs me from behind, breathing alcoholic breath down my back.

"You're not helping, sweetheart," he warns me gently, pulling me away from the peacekeeper and thrusting me behind his aged body, in a way that's oddly protective for him.


End file.
